


line that marks the start

by Wintertree



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Compliant, Child Acquisition, Friends to Lovers, Kid Fic, Light Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 40,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26088169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintertree/pseuds/Wintertree
Summary: He blacks out, or something, because the next thing Varric knows he’s at his desk with Bran standing over himwith a pinched look on his face.“I got a kid.”Bran’s face somehow pinches further. “Like, from a store?”Varric whacks his head against his desk.in which varric's saddled with a kid, and hawke tries not to get too attached
Relationships: Male Hawke/Varric Tethras
Comments: 23
Kudos: 59
Collections: Black Emporium 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greygerbil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greygerbil/gifts).



> MASSIVE props to my lovely friend who said “lol dont” when I asked if I could credit her for all of her amazing edits and suggestions. Turns out I’m a fucking mess when it comes to differentiating between “let’s” and “lets.” just dismal. Another big thank you to Jarakrisafis for the Britpick! And can’t forget a thank you to greygerbil for the prompt :) hope you enjoy!
> 
> _**FOR POTENTIAL SQUICKS AND TRIGGERS:** Please see End Notes for a more detailed description. I didn’t think their additions were central enough to the plot/story to warrant their inclusion in the tags, especially since it’s minorly spoilery, but I’ve included them at the end if you’d like to review before you start reading._

Varric’s pleasantly picking raw onions from his salad when his life ends.

Well, that’s what he _was_ doing when lunch got interrupted by a last minute addition to his diary. 

It’s not that Varric doesn’t know this guy—Ahren Cadanoch? Seron Cadanoch? one of the Cadanoch cousins, probably the younger—and his wares. Decent armor, couple of tomes, reliable if not spectacular precious metal supply routes. Varric likes to stay on top of the market. Plus the guy and his daughter have been lurking around the Keep for a couple days now trying to get a sit-down with Varric, demuring quietly from meeting with several other lower ranking officials. But this Cadanoch guy is not… _high priority._

It’s just, Hawke only arrived last week with a handful of Grey Wardens. Nothing too serious, but there was a breach of darkspawn along the southwestern edge of Sundermount and Hawke tagged along with the expedition from Weisshaupt. It’s not the first time he’s been back in the city since the mess with Meredith, but so far it’s been his longest stopover yet, and he’s heading back in just a couple days. So Varric emptied his schedule, sue him. 

Varric’s _trying_ to be a responsible, trusted public official. He tries to delegate, he avoids foods like onions that give him heartburn, graciously stops eating in front of guests even _during his lunch break,_ politely ignores a quick flash of silver changing hands in front of him, and _also_ politely ignores that his aides can be so cheaply bribed. (Silver? His precious half hour break for lunch isn’t even worth gold?)

Varric gestures for the dwarf and his kid, a girl around ten, eleven, at most twelve years old, to take a seat.

They make pleasant small talk, _Hi, Hello, Was it your great-great grandmother or great-great-_ great _grandmother who invented the wheel?, So what’s with the weather?, The hell is “sleet” anyways?, Got any good rocks around here?,_ the usual bullshit whenever he has to deal with another dwarf. 

And then fucking Seron Cadanoch drops a fat fucking stack of letters on the ugly, too-fucking-tall human-sized desk and ruins Varric’s fucking life.

A cold sweat breaks out across the back of Varric’s neck as he flips through the letters, barely registering the print.

“You’re–,” Varric starts, then bites back the words. Takes a breath. “Bartrand had a kid.”

 _“Has,”_ corrects Seron, a benign customer-service smile stretched over his face. The kid in question sits quietly in her chair, feet hanging well above the ground. Varric does the mental math, but this isn’t any evidence to refute it. It’s not like Bartrand was particularly inclined to marry, and it also wasn’t like he was going to bring any hot dates back to Kirkwall after being run out of town. To be honest, Varric had thought his brother had lost all motivation to knock boots, but apparently he rallied through. “And now that she’s of age to start an apprenticeship, we just want what’s best.”

Varric nods stupidly. “Yes, well, I’m not sure Kirkwall is the best for that. After two civil wars, the waterfront is only slowly getting rebuilt. You’re just as likely to get robbed as you are to fall into a pothole.”

“Even better, a well-rounded education on urban development _and_ politics.” Seron’s eyes flick to the books along the wall. “Until it’s safer, perhaps she could practice her letters and copying. Forgive me, Viscount, but among the families there’s no record of you naming an heir.” 

Hiding a wince, Varric inclines his head in agreement. He _doesn’t_ have an heir. His will breaks down his fortune and estate to his editor, to Hawke, to the rest of their friends wherever they’ve fucked off to, and to Chantry and Inquisition coiffers (never hurts to hedge your bets). He goes back and forth on whether to get buried with Bianca, or have her burned for safety—for the sake of the invention, all involved still alive, and for his tomb not getting desecrated by looters. 

But no heir to the merchant prince. Bitterly, Varric thought he had snipped the Tethras line for good.

The dwarf pats the letters, parchment yellowed with age but well preserved. “From her mother.”

“And her mother is okay with this?”

“Rischa… passed, many summers back.” He squeezes the kid’s shoulder, and she gifts him a quick soft smile before gazing back at the floor. Through the buzzing in Varric’s ears, Seron continues to explain that Rischa was his sister, and that after she died, he adopted his niece as his own. Varric asks after Seron’s wife, but he just shakes his head. “With the twins running around and another little one on the way, my wife was in no condition to cross the sea with us.”

All of the sudden, Varric catches an acrid whiff of the onion on his forgotten plate and hopes his guests can’t smell it. Dread creeps down his neck when he remembers that he was too caught up with the arrival of guests to surreptitiously check if his teeth were clear of food.

He tries to adopt a delicate tone. “Twins? No shit! Humans pop them out like crazy, but I don’t think I’ve ever met a dwarven one. And a pregnant wife... Listen,” Varric says, mentally tallying his rainy-day funds and comes to terms with losing all of it, “if it’s a matter of hungry mouths at home—”

“I can provide for my family.” There’s a flash of steel behind his smile.

“Right of _course,_ no disrespect, I’m just not sure if _I’m_ the best—”

“Apologies for the forwardness, Viscount, but seeing as you are her father’s, ah, brother by blood,” the _and his killer_ going unsaid, “we truly feel you are the best candidate to take responsibility for our daughter's continued training, and to take her in as your ward.” 

Varric shifts his attention to the kid. He wants to give her a smile, but what if he actually does have a damned piece of spinach in his teeth? He can almost feel it, like a phantom glaring Chanter's Board hung up next to his incisor.

“Listen, kid,” Varric says, trying to soften his face and ignore the bubbling hysterical drumbeat of _spinach spinach spinach spinach_ in his mind, “I’m not interested in taking you away from your uncle’s if you don’t want to leave.”

“Father,” Seron cuts in. “When she was adopted, we became her parents. She calls me and my wife her father and mother at home.”

“Ah, right.” Varric glances back at the kid, but she seems unperturbed. “Regardless, the point stands. But if you want to come to Kirkwall, we’ll make it work.”

The kid— _his kid??_ —shrugs and picks at a loose thread on her tunic. It’s clean, made of heavy fabric, and the delicate embroidery shines nicely from the edge of the hem. But the trousers are about an inch too short, and frayed slightly like they had been hastily let out. The outfit was likely made a couple years ago, or borrowed from a wealthier cousin.

“I want to make my family proud,” she says, eyes boring into him. It’s the first she’s looked directly at him, and Varric feels it like a punch to the throat. She’s got a bit of that tan that marks true surfacers different from Orzammar folk as blatant as the brand does, and her mousy brown hair is a couple shades darker than Varric or Bartrand’s ever got.

But her eyes are light and icy, exactly like his brother’s. 

“Okay. Well, then,” Varric’s voice says, although his consciousness is floating somewhere above his head and a little to the right, “I guess we’re making it work.”

He blacks out, or something, because the next thing Varric knows he’s at his desk with Bran standing over him with a pinched look on his face.

“I got a kid.”

Bran’s face somehow pinches further. “Like, from a store?”

Varric whacks his head against his desk.

“Hm,” says Bran. “You’re fucked.”

Varric whacks his head against the smooth oak a couple more times.

Despondently, Varric wishes he could stay like that until Hawke returns in the evening, but he is in fact the terribly busy ruler of a small city-state and goes back to work after only a couple minutes of self pitying melodrama. 

His aides direct Seron and the kid to the guest wing, and a runner goes to pick their belongings from The Blushing Bronto Inn. After reading the letters a couple times through, Varric passes them off so his very smart and very expensive spies can check for forgeries. The shittiest part is, there are a couple letters from Bartrand _after_ the kid was born, acknowledging and yet also dismissing her existence. Regardless, authenticating the correspondence is mostly a formality anyways. That one look was proof enough; she’s Bartrand’s kid alright.

Still, Varric’s got non-long-lost-family-member work he’s been letting pile up, and throws himself back into it. He works by candlelight for a couple of hours until a soft knock pulls his attention away.

Hawke’s head pokes through a crack in the door. His ears stick straight out like they normally do, especially with his long hair pulled back in a tight braid, but the tips are red and peeling from the late summer sun. It’s like the heavy pressure sitting in the middle of Varric’s chest lifts for the first time all day.

“So I hear you’re eating for two now?”

“Fuck you, Hawke,” Varric says tiredly. He pushes his papers away and lays down his pen. “My aides are shit.”

“Maybe if you were kinder to them they’d keep out the riff raff.” Hawke saunters into the office and sets a wineskin down on the desk. “Seriously, dwarf, can I not let you out of my sight for a couple hours without you getting ‘in the family way’?”

Varric takes a heavy gulp from the wineskin and tries not to gag. Hawke really has the worst taste in wine, his gums already ache from how sweet it is. Once he caught Hawke stirring in an extra teaspoon of sugar into his wine glass, and he still doesn’t know if that was serious or just to fuck with him.

“Well, Hawke, when a daddy loves a mommy very much and also hates his younger brother _so_ very much—,” Hawke cuts him off by squeezing him on the shoulder. Varric lets out a shuddering breath and tries not to show how close he is from tears. “I’ve got a niece.”

“Mm. And an heir, if the gossip is true.”

“Yeah.” Varric places his hand atop Hawke’s, pushing down to make him hold him harder. “Probably.”

“It’s not all doom and gloom, though!” Hawke gives him one last squeeze before shuffling over and rudely sitting on the desktop. “It could be cute, having a little kid trailing you around. Play catch-the-ball or toss-the-rocks or what have you. Give them a proper mentorship, show them how to grow chest hair, run a city. Or at the very least just keep them alive. Maker knows how you’ve kept me kicking all these years.”

If only Hawke knew how many sleepless nights Varric stared at his ceiling and thought the same thing.

“I’ll figure it out.” Varric forces himself to breathe. No use in winding himself up into a nervous breakdown. “How’s the Coast?”

“Better. Some idiot nailed up a bunch of bloody planks outside the cave. Spent most of the day ripping them down so we could actually get to the nest and root the darkspawn out.” Hawke snatches the wine back and takes a sip with an appreciative hum. “Should take another couple days to wrap up, and then they’ll head back.”

Varric freezes. “They?”

Hawke smiles at him, soft and small. “Yes.”

Varric tries very hard not to melt. It’s like another set of weights drop off, ones he didn’t even know were strapped to his back. Varric wants to cry. He wants to hug Hawke hard enough to turn his face blue.

Instead, he just whispers, “Thank you,” and hopes that Hawke gets it.

“So,” Hawke says, breaking eye contact to poke at his papers, nosy bastard, “what’s her name?”

Varric chokes on air.

Astyth.

The kid’s name is Astyth. Varric feels like an asshole for not remembering, but in his defense, he was trying not to have a nervous breakdown yesterday.

Hawke’s off bothering Aveline somewhere, giving Varric some space while still staying close.

The kid shrugs and picks lint off her tunic. “Mom thought it sounded traditional.”

“It… certainly is.” Not uncommon for surfacers to name their kids after Paragons, although most Orzammar nobles would find it tacky. It fits the kid, though. Like her namesake, she seems mostly quiet. Polite. Helpful. Respectful. 

Varric cleared his afternoon to get to know the kid a little better, and now they’re sitting in one of the small gardens in the Keep and pretending they’re not being watched by Bran, Seron, and a handful of nosy servants.

Talking with her isn’t unlike holding a conversation with a Silent Sister. At first Varric just thought she was shy, but now they’re forty five minutes into unpleasantly sitting in silence and Varric is concerned she might just be _dull._

Okay, that’s rude. The kid answers any question Varric throws at her, but she has this weird habit of speaking like her voice doesn’t extend further than her body. Instead of projecting to Varric, sitting _only a foot away,_ it’s like she’s talking only as far as her own mouth and everyone else is just eavesdropping. Aren’t kids supposed to run around, and be sticky with juice or covered in dirt? Varric might have been the baby of his family, but it’s not like he’s never met a kid before; he still talks to plenty of the orphans he used to quietly sponsor in Lowtown. He almost misses Cole’s invasive, childlike questions. (Almost.) She doesn’t seem traumatized or overwhelmed, just… quiet.

Varric sneaks glances at Seron, but the dwarf has one of the best Wicked Grace faces Varric’s ever seen. Totally placid. For the life of him, Varric has no idea what the kid even thinks about this. By the end of the week, there’s a good chance Varric will be her legal guardian.

It’s also the most ecstatic he’s ever seen Bran. The kid seems happy to follow his instructions for where to sit, what to take for tea, and so on. Varric can practically see the gears turning inside the seneschal’s head. With Astyth all but locked in as Varric’s heir, all Bran needs to do is curry the favor of a quiet, passive, lonely ten year old girl and he’ll be running the city as soon as she comes of age to become Viscount. Varric stole a glance at Bran’s notepad earlier in the day, and it just had _“pony → dwarf appropriate??”_ circled three times.

As deranged as Varric thinks it is to drop your adoptive daughter at the doorstep of her father’s killer, Varric begrudges that it’s not the worst gamble. Astyth—yeah, she’s gonna need a nickname, no door-stop ward of Varric’s is going to get bullied over a mouthful like that—is literally being handed the keys to a whole fucking city. Or something. Apparently there’s an actual set of keys and they exist somewhere in the treasury, Varric can look for them later.

In the meantime, Varric finishes up his cup of tea, and agrees to do another sitdown with Astyth tomorrow. Luckily for Varric, Bran lags behind looking for a lost fountain pen, and Varric is able to escape and have a quiet, indulgent panic attack for the first time in days.

The next day’s tea goes well, as does the day after that. She’s just as quiet, just as shy. Seron and the kid attend a luncheon with the Merchants guild. She says maybe four words, but Seron walks out with a couple of trade contracts. Astyth seems just as agreeable as her conversations with Bran (if you could call them that), and the guild members nearly cry with their impassioned pleas begging Varric to take in this sweet, poor orphan. And then start gleefully planning his assassination over the soup course, like he can’t see them doing it.

By the end of the luncheon, more than two members approach Varric to casually ask if “teacup brontos are appropriate for surfacers?” and he just wanly smiles and shakes hands to get out of there. He beelines back to his office– he still has to iron out the practical matters of _being a legal guardian._ He needs to review Josephine’s shortlist of family tutors, and finalize renovations on her quarters. 

Varric was too lazy and obstinate to live outside the Keep, and now it’s biting him in the ass. It’s too much work to buy a house, refurbish it, staff it, and not break down screaming and crying, so they’re just refitting the ambassador quarters in the wing that Varric is squatting in.

 _Maker,_ Varric thinks, _“squatting,” as if he hasn’t been actively living in the Keep for the last year._

“Viscount, if you have a minute,” one of his aides, the cheap one, says. He’s tall for a human, extra gangly in the elbows and knees, and Varric tries not to resent him for it.

Varric rubs his strained eyes and gestures him over. “Hit me, what do you need? If it’s about rugs for the kid's room again, I _will_ fire you.”

“Just a requisition form, messere.” The aide puts a sheet of parchment in front of him. “We need new silverwork commissioned, mechanical oil, and to buy some additional spices, mainly saffron and truffle, for the kitchens.”

Confused, Varric scans the letter quickly. “Isn’t this an issue for the quartermaster?” 

The aide coughs. “Yes, Viscount. She asked me to get your approval, as, well, it’s quite a bit _soon_ to be requesting more of these items.”

Right, someone’s got sticky fingers and the quartermaster doesn’t want to deal with it. Varric signs the bottom of the letter and passes it back.

“Here, pass it along to Guard Captain Vallen.” Varric turns back to his mess of paperwork at his desk, but the aide hovers in the corner of his eye. Varric slowly looks back up at him. “Anything else?”

“Yes, actually, it’s about the curtains in your ward’s quarters—”

Two days later, his informants send word back.

The kid is Bartrand’s. 

Hawke swings by that night, and they play Wicked Grace until it’s past sunrise and Aveline and Donnic join them before their shift. Varric doesn’t normally feel small when talking with humans, especially not when they’re seated around a table and he’s fleecing them out of coin. But he feels small then, bracketed by three of his oldest, dearest friends, and not an ounce of child-rearing experience among them. 

Six days after that, Varric signs the official paperwork and is now the proud and scared shitless father-slash-uncle of a living, breathing dwarf child.

He sees Seron off with the kid, unsure if he’s supposed to hug her, either to console or congratulate her. 

But as soon as her adoptive father is a speck on the horizon, she turns to him with dry, calculating eyes. 

Startled, Varric gets the impulse to shake her hand, like they just closed a land deal. Shit, after all of their bland, quiet teas, Varric realizes that he doesn’t actually know what _she_ wants from _him._ A mentor figure? An uncle? Another _father?_ Or just someone to put a roof over her head and food on her plate?

Varric blinks, and the sharp figure in front of him is replaced by a dull-eyed, quiet little girl. Unsettled, Varric leads them back into the Keep. She politely compliments the rug in her room, and then quietly shuts the door as soon as he crosses the threshold on his way out.


	2. Chapter 2

Hawke wakes up like he normally does, both thirsty and dying for a piss. 

It’s pretty much how he’s always woken up, ever since he was a child. The only real difference nowadays is that instead of waking to the general buzz and noise of a household coming to life in the morning, it’s to the sun splashing bright against his eyes. Hawke had to pull his bed about a foot and a half away from the wall to get the angle to work right—otherwise, he’ll sleep clear until midmorning.

With a groan, Hawke yanks off his bedsheets and gets to business. He was never one for a lie-in anyways.

After splashing some water on his face and rubbing his teeth down with a fresh strip of linen, Hawke grabs the runt end of a block of cheese and a pinch of fennel for later and makes his way to the baker’s stand outside of the Blooming Rose. He and Carver used to sneak up to Hightown when they were still living with Gamlen to get the freshest picks before the drunks would stumble out in the light of day. They sold the best rye loaves in the city, no contest, but Mother always frowned if they made any mention of the brothel. If only she knew how poor, innocent Carver would spend his monthly allowance on something more eyewatering than a spiced meat pastry. 

Hawke shakes the thought away and refuses to let his mind get pulled down a nostalgic path, taking alternate chews of his cheese and freshly purchased bread. An empty house makes for a rougher start to his mornings, but he’s used to it by now. Doesn’t stop him from missing his sweet, lovely, loyal dog. She’s with Carver now; Hawke had Aveline bring her to him when Carver got ferried out of Orlais. Hawke had to lay low after the failed Conclave, and Carver could use the extra protection only a massive warhound could give.

But he even misses the soft sounds of Sandal’s heavy breathing while he watched Hawke read. You always take the little things for granted, even the weird, unsettling little things.

Plus, all the remaining enchanters in Hightown upcharge. 

The closer Hawke gets to the Keep, the lighter his steps get, which— Maker, try explaining _that_ to himself from five years ago. With all the official paperwork out of the way, Varric has no excuse to hide away from the noble families, and likely won’t have time to bequeath his attention to Hawke. 

Disappointing, but expected. 

With a quick glance at the guards on rotation out front, it must still be early enough that he’s got a sliver of time to distract Varric before his aides drag him off to a painfully boring meeting.

Hawke bounds up the inner stairs two at a time and slips into a quick fade step when he rounds an empty hallway. He throws Varric’s door open dramatically and saunters inside.

Varric flinches in surprise at the brash entrance, quill frozen mid-air. 

“Hawke, if you’re trying to kill me, poison would be preferred,” he grouses. Still, Varric gently lays down his quill and leans back.

Hawke grins, ego sufficiently puffed up. It’s nice to be the priority of Varric’s focus. He tries to steal a glance at Varric’s clock, but it’s missing from its normal spot on the mantle. A servant must have taken it to be rewound. 

“Very well, dwarf.” Hawke tosses him the remainder of his breakfast. “Be my guest.”

Varric takes a bite and hums appreciatively. “Oh, this takes me back. Hagron’s booth? You got anything to go with it?”

“Obviously, and here, kill what’s left of the rind.”

“Sometimes I think I couldn’t possibly adore you more, and then you go and prove me wrong,” Varric says through a smile. Hawke preens and settles into the corner couch. Varric pulls a small jug of honey from the chest behind his desk, because Varric is the wisest man he’s ever met, and drizzles some on top of his rye bread and cheese. He shoots Hawke a sly look. “Busy evening, then? Take a nap if you need.”

It takes a second, but belatedly it clicks for Hawke that Varric thinks he spent the night at the Rose. 

Hawke just makes a noncommittal noise. 

It’s not like he’s spent an evening there—or with anyone, for that matter—for a while now. All he does nowadays is either watch Grey Wardens stoically hit things with swords, bother Varric, or rattle around in his giant lonely house. Easier to just let Varric think whatever he thinks. 

“Seriously, I’ll be in the Great Hall all day,” Varric continues, “numbing my ass on the worst throne in existence.”

Hawke laughs. “Remember when a demon used to live in it?”

A knock on the door interrupts them, and Varric stands with an exasperated sigh. “Technically it only lived _next_ to it, and I was _actually_ thinking about how the last Viscount was lucky enough to get chopped up into little bits. Finish my breakfast before it attracts flies.”

“It _was_ my breakfast.”

“Well– yeah, yeah, quit banging, I’m coming!” Varric yells at the door. He bundles up some papers, but pauses by Hawke's head long enough to gift him a goofy grin. “Today’s going to suck, but I’m free for dinner. Eat with me and the kid. I want you to meet her, officially.”

“I will,” Hawke says, promise slipping out as easy as breathing. 

A moment later, he’s left alone in the office. Hawke makes quick work of the bread and honey, and chews on the pinch of fennel he tucked away. He can hear the guards clanging and running drills in the yard, and imagines he can hear the baritone of Donnic’s voice. 

Hawke folds his legs the best he can on the short couch and lets himself relax. Circumstances might not be what Varric assumes, but he can’t say that he’s had particularly restful sleep recently. 

The office smells of Varric and the little satchels of cedar he thinks will keep moths away. He pulls his hood down to cover his eyes, and drifts easily into a light drowse, small smile playing on his lips. 

A shadow crosses over his eyes and Hawke startles awake, throwing up a quick and dirty barrier while he tries to place the interruption.

There’s a soft gasp, and through the streaky blue bubble, he catches sight of Varric’s young ward staring at him with wide eyes.

“Apologies, serah,” Hawke says as gently as he can. He banishes the barrier with a quick flick of his wrist. “Quick trick about life in Kirkwall, it’s ill-advised to sneak up on a mage.”

“When is it not?” she blurts out. She seems caught out, awkwardly standing in Varric’s office, eyes darting around the room. “But, I mean– apologies, messere.”

Hawke clears his throat. “Looking for your uncle? He should still be in the Great Hall if—”

She shakes her small head. “No, that’s alright. I should get back to my tutors.”

Maker, are all dwarf children this tiny? Bethany was always slight of build, but at least she was bold where Carver was physically bigger but shy at that age. Bethany’s presence could fill a room. Hawke could fit _this_ child into a thimble.

“You’re Astyth, yes? We haven’t met yet, I believe. I’m Hawke, a friend of Varric’s,” he says. She nods politely. Belatedly, he realizes she’s quietly waiting for his dismissal and he gestures at the door with his warmest smile. “Please, don’t let me keep you.”

She gives him an impossibly tiny curtsy and leaves him to his still racing heart in the office.

Varric wasn’t kidding, she’s definitely a quiet one. Seron only left Kirkwall about a week prior, but this truly is the first time Hawke’s spoken directly with the girl. He’s a little impressed that she got as far as standing over him before he woke up; he wasn’t that deep asleep, but he didn’t even hear the door open.

Now fully awake, Hawke’s stomach grumbles. Shouldn’t be too hard to sweet talk the cook into giving him some cured pork. Apparently her heirloom shawl went missing, and he’s been meaning to hear more about it before opening random barrels to find it.

As Hawke exits the room, he sneaks a peek at Varric’s door hinges—sure enough, they’re polished and oiled enough to gleam. He gives a low whistle. There are always perks to being in charge, he supposes.

Later that night, Hawke makes his way back to Varric’s moderately sized apartment in the Keep. Most viscounts wouldn’t be caught dead living in such common quarters, staying only there to host a specific dignitary or sleep when work went too late, but it’s not like Varric could take up his residence in The Hanged Man again. Nor willing to stay in Bartrand’s estate, no matter how renovated. Not for the first time, Hawke kicks himself for not offering up the Hawke estate.

But Hawke likes Varric’s apartment. It’s cozy, and therefore well-proportioned to Varric’s stature.

“Har har, that never gets old,” Varric mocks when Hawke tells him as much when he arrives for dinner.

As promised, it’s just Varric, his niece, and Hawke for dinner. A servant flits in and out to swap courses, but it’s otherwise a relatively casual affair.

Hawke tries to pull the child into the conversation, but she’s almost stubbornly quiet, only responding to direct questions. He shares a look with Varric over her head, but eventually he caves and spends the rest of the meal just making conversation with his friend.

Pleasantly full and tired, Hawke let’s himself get walked to the hallway after dinner.

“Hey, Hawke, you got a moment?" Varric asks in a quiet tone.

“Of course,” he responds, lowering his voice to match. “What is it?”

“Did you… notice anything a little _off_ with the kid?”

Hawke thinks it over. “By ‘off’ do you mean ‘eccentric dowager,’ ‘lick the wallpaper,’ or ‘lyrium idol insanity’?” 

Varric shrugs. “Don’t think it’s the third, but maybe one of the first two.”

“Want me to keep an eye on her?” he asks, thinking back to her quiet steps this morning.

“That would be amazing.” Varric visibly slumps. Hawke squeezes his shoulder. “She’s probably just homesick, but she won’t _talk_ about it.”

“You’re doing a good job so far, Varric. She just got dumped in Kirkwall, all she needs is some time to warm up.” Hawke let’s his arm linger against Varric before pulling it away. “I remember the feeling well.”

Two weeks later, Hawke wants to strangle his mushy-headed past self. He was never one who enjoyed the small classroom the Sisters ran in off-seasons in Lothering, not like Bethany did. It made him antsy to sit still and focus when the sky was still high in the sky, and anyways, it was fun to bait Carver during lessons.

But he told Varric that he’d keep an eye on the child, and the next day he sheepishly knocked on the drawing room door and asked the tutor if he could pop in and out. Of course, Madame Moitessier scolded him for interruptions, demanding he either _stay out or stay seated,_ and so Hawke picked the latter out of the kindness of his heart. Now has to miserably relearn his letters and arithmetic when he _could_ be out killing slavers. 

And whoever said learning things through the eyes of a child was the greatest joy was a hack.

Astyth, while a decent enough student, was likely one of the _least_ curious or ambitious children Hawke has ever met. She caught on to concepts relatively quickly, but never prompted clarification or follow-up. At first it irritated Hawke, who got glared at by the tutor every time he so much as shifted in his seat, but by the second day he was grateful. Class sped by unhampered by interruptions, and the tutor would often seem to be at a loss for more curriculum and let them go early.

Today, like all the days, Hawke ducks out as soon as the lesson ends. But he gets halfway home before he realizes he can’t find his gloves. Cursing, he jogs back to the Keep. He _liked_ those gloves, blast it. They’re made of a sturdy yet flexible leather, practically molded to his hands, and– well, it’s shallow, but _they match his robes!_ and Hawke huffs all the way back in annoyance. He must have taken them off at some point.

Hawke pokes his head into the room, but only Madame is there. She startles with a small gasp when she sees him, and he waves apologetically. 

“So where’s the girl?” Hawke asks, only half paying attention. He mellows his words, not wanting to take his frustration out on the poor woman. Maker’s Breath, he can’t find them anywhere.

The tutor gives him a mildly dirty look before going back to grading Astyth’s writing. “Out, I suppose.” 

Blinking, Hawke stops crawling under the table and sits back on his heels. He– he doesn’t actually know _where_ the kid goes during breaks, either. She’s not in her quarters, obviously. 

He mulls over it. Normally, he escapes as soon as he can after lessons, but he doesn’t have the foggiest idea what the girl actually does with her free time. For that matter, he doesn’t even know if she has any hobbies. If someone told him she recreationally watches paint dry, he would only be surprised if the color was anything other than “eggshell.” 

Hawke resolves to investigate the next day, after an excruciating lecture on the history of the Free Marches. He makes grumbling noises about going to bother poor Aveline, but doubles back shortly after. Interested for the first time in ages, Hawke hugs the shadows and trails after Astyth. He’s not too concerned, but bored and nosy has always been his most dangerous combination of moods. 

She seems idle, walking without hurry or goal to one of the smaller gardens in the Keep. She picks at the twigs a bit and yanks at some taller pieces of grass, typical benign childlike behavior that would only catch the notice of an irritated groundskeeper.

Hawke pauses in the garden, letting the sun warm his face. It’s starting to get cooler now, though a little muggier this far from direct sea breeze. He leans into his own childlike impulses and plucks a sprig of honeysuckle. Maybe he’ll weave it through his lapel, or press it in his notebook. For now, he just rests his eyes closed and takes a deep breath of fresh air.

After a beat he opens his eyes and— the girl’s gone.

Hawke darts his eyes around the garden, and nope, not here anymore. He’s not alarmed, not really, but it _is_ bizarre. There’s only one entrance, and he was lurking right next to it. He faintly remembers how soft-footed she was when she woke him from his nap.

He ducks into the hallways and turns to a servant wiping down the windowsills. “Excuse me, but did you see which direction the Viscount’s ward took off to?”

The servant stands to give a small curtsy. “No, messere. I haven’t seen her today.”

“But, she _does_ come by here? To be in the garden?”

“I– perhaps, messere,” she says with a small frown. “Shall I keep a look out for her? She’s want to roam.”

Hawke waves her away, already striding down the hall. “That’s alright, serah. Thank you.”

He ducks down a couple other corridors, but the child’s gone. No one seems to have seen her, and those that have scratch their hands trying to remember specifically when and where.

Something itchy starts to form between Hawke’s shoulder blades. He returns to the drawing room, opening the door suddenly enough to startle the tutor.

“Please, messere, not again!” Madame Moitessier gasps, Orlesian mask slipping slightly before she rights it. “What is the matter?”

He crosses over to Astyth’s work station. “Do you know where the child goes during your breaks?”

“Like I said, she goes out.” She shrugs, defensive. “A walk to stretch her legs, perhaps.”

“And you don’t accompany her?” He shuffles around the papers, finding parchment scraps from prior lessons.

The tutor bristles. “As you can tell from your _wholly_ unnecessary attention, she is a reliable pupil, and does not need the extra time to study.”

Hawke studies the parchment, and starts to laugh. He laughs long and hard enough to unsettle the woman further.

He takes the papers, and continues laughing, and laughing, all the way to Varric’s office where he shoos out a hovering aide.

“And these are…?” Varric asks, mouth crinkling with amusement, Hawke’s good mood infecting him even if he’s not yet in on the joke. 

Hawke wipes his eyes and calms himself. He pulls out the honeysuckle sprig and tucks it behind Varric’s ear on a whim. “You were right, the child’s odd.”

The humor wipes off Varric’s face, replaced by apprehension. “I thought you said the past couple weeks were boring.”

“A mistake. I might have been bored witless, but _she’s_ not boring.” Hawke points to the paper. “Look. Spelling mistakes, about one every two paragraphs.”

“The tutor said she had room to improve—”

“No but _look._ Spelling mistakes, but some of them are words she writes correctly elsewhere on the page. And spaced out.”

Varric scans the pages. “Spaced out just enough to keep it from being _too_ good, is what you think is happening.”

Hawke grins, laughter threatening to bubble up again. “Not just that. These are her first drafts, something she was asked to write on the spot.”

“They’re clean. Nothing’s scratched out,” Varric says, eyes widening. But he shakes his head. “Not exactly red-handed evidence, Hawke.”

“But from a ten year old, who never had a formal education before arriving in Kirkwall? _No_ second guessing, or scratched letters? I still can’t spell ‘restaurant’ without wasting half an inkwell.”

“Maybe she helped her uncle with his books.” Varric passes the papers back, resistance starting to crumble. “Or is especially careful with her work.”

“Maybe,” Hawke concedes, leaning against the wall. “But she gave me the smoothest fucking slip I’ve seen in over a year. In my experience, the harder someone tries to be utterly boring and inconsequential, the more interesting they actually are. You can only fake being average if you’re extraordinary.” 

“Any ideas what I should do? Other than politely asking the kid if she’s a Crow here to kill me in my sleep?”

“Yes, actually.” Hawke indulges a wide grin. “First, you need to do a little more homework on the child. Someone you trust, see if there’s anything hiding from home. And then second, even if I’m not right about her, which I am, you should really fire that Orlesian woman.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> personally i was annoying and LOVED participating in class bc I'm obsessed with the sound of my own voice


	3. Chapter 3

The elf saunters into his office shortly after the third bell.

“You’re late,” Varric grouses. 

She’s not, but he can’t let Ritts get too cocky. Plus, he still doesn’t have a replacement clock in his office after the last one went missing. The plan was for her to do some recon with Astyth’s family, and then do a couple days unseen in Kirkwall before giving her report. Still, it made Varric itchy to know she was walking around within arms reach and he had to wait.

“I’m also on loan. Take it up with the Nightingale.”

Varric shudders, only half playacting. “Just give me what you’ve got.”

Ritts passes over a scroll, breaking the seal for him with the tip of her dagger. Neat invention, courtesy of Dagna. Enchanted wax that requires a specific keyed item to remove. Otherwise, any sort of tampering triggers a combustion rune. Three-and-a-half foot tall stressor aside, Varric likes living in Kirkwall again. But while his city is prioritizing getting up and running, he can’t help but feel a little jealous that the Inquisition can focus on research and creation. 

Then again, he’s also starting to hear whispers about an Exalted Council forming within the next year or so. Varric can poke around, see if there’s anyone he can poach as advisors. He’s got a soft spot for Ritts, sue him. She does good, smart work for Leliana, but it was also his idea to recruit her. He kept an eye on her at Skyhold, and she owed him one.

“Here’s the long of it.” She pauses, hesitant.

Varric tries not to crumple the paper in his hands and nervously holds eye contact. “Shit, I’m not going to like the short of it either, am I.”

“Good news, I think Kirkwall really is a fresh start.” Ritts smiles ruefully. “Bad news, she used to be buddies with the Carta.”

“She’s a _kid,”_ he blurts out. Not that that means anything. They tend to recruit young. Apparently the Hero of Fereldan started pickpocketing for them before she could read. But Astyth didn’t grow up in Dust Town. She was raised in a moderately comfortable surfacer family, even before her mother passed. In all the letters of hers Varric read, not once did they indicate serious financial concerns or a tie to the Carta.

“And her family bailed her out,” she says, settling into a chair. Varric goes for a pitcher of watered ale, before changing his mind and pouring both of them bourbon from his shelf. Ritts tips her glass at him. “Thanks. It’s probably why your men didn’t catch it. One, I’m amazing, and two, she was only doing small time jobs for them. Light pickpocketing here and there whenever they travelled to a bigger city, maybe gave her some training. Her uncle—”

“Adoptive father,” Varric mutters, uncharitable. Wasn’t Seron supposed to keep an eye on her after his sister died? He made Astyth call him “father” instead of uncle, just to let her traipse off with the fucking _Carta?_

“Right, well, he was able to pay her out. Does a couple of jobs for them, tips them to deliveries. You know what it’s like. Nothing fancy, but more than a single runner’s worth.”

Varric sullenly sips his bourbon, heat settling down in his gut. Andraste’s tits. He can practically see Seron’s thick face, smile mild. _Cut ties, and we’ll both have an in with the Viscount of Kirkwall._

Stupid, fucking bland Seron. Using a kid— _his_ own kid as a bargaining chip.

“And you think she has a clean slate?”

Ritts shrugs and finishes her drink. “As far as I can tell, your ward hasn’t spoken to a single Carta soul since moving to Kirkwall, even in Hightown. I’m guessing they’re keeping their distance.”

“In Hightown?” he wheezes. Hawke said she wandered unaccounted for, but in the _city?_

She nods. “Yes, she’s damn hard to shadow without being spotted, but she found a way out of the Keep. I caught her sneaking through the rafters, Maker knows how she figured it out.”

 _Rafters?_ What kind of a fucking dwarf likes heights? No wonder Hawke lost her. No one’s instinct when searching for a dwarf is to look _up._

Ice drips in Varric’s veins as several things click into focus. “She’s been stealing stuff and hocking it, hasn’t she.”

Ritts inclines her head, and Varric buries his own in his hands. He’ll review her findings more at length later, but right now he needs someone to punch him hard enough in the head to make him black out this entire conversation. The point of being Viscount is that he wouldn’t have to pay off the guard anymore on behalf of his merry band of unrepentant criminals.

“Here, I think these belong to your friend. The seller claimed them to be ‘genuine gauntlets from the Champion of Kirkwall himself!’ Silver lining, looks like she’s good at making new friends.”

Varric lifts up his head and pours them both another finger. Sure enough, he would recognize those gloves anywhere, and not just because Hawke’s been whining about losing them for a month straight.

The two of them sit in peaceful silence for a minute, the clanking of the guard the only sound keeping them company. 

“So,” Ritts says, sweetly innocent, nodding at the open window. ”the big redhead– she single?”

He narrows his eyes. “If you’re talking about _Guard Captain Vallen,_ she could snap your thin, elven bones like a twig.”

She blows a raspberry. “Not a no.”

“No, she’s happily married.” Varric wags his finger at her. “And you’re not actually Andraste’s gift to women.”

“But _dad,_ I’m so _bored_ and her shoulders are so _wide.”_

He throws a book at her head. “Quit it. That joke was never funny, especially not now.”

“Eh, agree to disagree.” Ritts sobers, studies him more carefully. Damnit. The problem with fostering spies was that sometimes they spied right back. “How are you doing, truly?”

Varric downs the rest of his drink.

Varric means to confront Astyth about the stealing, he does. But he also has no idea how to start that conversation. 

Instead, he whines and waffles for another couple days. Hawke’s no help—he seems to think this is something Varric should do himself.

And Varric agrees with him, he does. She’s his kid, not Hawke’s. But a little, needy corner of Varric’s heart cries and wants to beg Hawke to be his partner in this. He squashes it as far down as he can, and limits himself to inviting Hawke over for dinner every other night.

Hawke almost always says yes, and it’s a common occurrence for them to chat over the meal while Astyth pokes at her greens and they all pretend not to see her pocketing the silverware.

According to Hawke, there’s going to be a doozy of a lightning storm later.

“Oh ho, is that right?” Varric teases as he pointedly ignores his soup spoon disappearing up the kid’s sleeve. “Where was this skill of yours back in the summer of 9:34? First you dragged me all the way to the Gallows, and then I nearly drowned walking upright on the way back home.”

“Well, I only tweaked the elbow last year. But now it aches like clockwork before a storm, or if I get a little too crazy with a lightning spell.”

Varric chews a mouthful thoughtfully. “When was that? Did I know about your elbow?” Hawke is a damn fine healer; it must have been a nasty injury to still be giving him trouble.

Hawke waves away his concern. “No, it’s nothing bad, don’t worry. I was just a little distracted pushing crates around Weisshaupt, truly—”

“Weisshaupt? The home of the Grey Wardens?”

Varric and Hawke blink at each other before both turning to the little thief. It’s the first time she’s spoken out loud at a dinner, other than whispering for salt.

“Yes, and it’s bloody boring,” Hawke says, unfreezing first. “The lot of them are all old and stuffy cooped up in the fort, but the _real_ action is around a campfire or in the Deep Roads.”

Her eyes grow as wide as saucers. Hawke grins and leans in, smelling blood in the water. He spouts off a series of tales about the Wardens, each one more ridiculous than the last, and certainly more interesting than Hawke’s battle with a crate. Astyth pushes aside her plate, practically leaning over the table. She even starts cutting Hawke off, excitedly asking questions. Hawke seems surprised by it, but quickly rolls with the punches.

Varric leans back, content to sip his wine and eat another helping of spiced bread pudding. Usually he’s one to show someone up in a conversation, try to out story-tell the story-teller. But Hawke’s face is glowing under the kid’s rapt attention, and he keeps sneaking little glances at Varric to make sure he’s watching. Varric considers mentioning the time the Inquisitor dragged his dwarf ass to the Deep Roads and he met a real Legionnaire of the Dead, but he idly lets the thought float away. Hawke won’t quit looking at him, and Varric can’t tell if he’s waiting for Varric to jump in, or if he’s just making sure he’s got a captive audience. Regardless, Varric quietly settles in his chair. He’s happy watching Hawke bask in the glow of her interest.

“But you don’t want to officially join the Wardens?” she pipes up, eventually. Her voice sounds weird, and then it clicks for Varric. Instead of the swallowed muted quality it usually is, she seems to have forgotten to do so, and she’s now talking at the normal levels of communication.

“Maker, no.” Seeing her crestfallen face, Hawke waves his hand anxiously. “But my brother is one! He enjoys the life. Found purpose in it. He’s good at it, too.”

“How did he join?” 

Hawke and Varric exchange a glance, and Varric finds himself leaning forward to answer. “It’s a tough life, kid. It’s not always a choice.”

She furrows her brow. “Did your brother kill someone?”

“No! Well, yes he’s killed people, but no that’s not why he had to join.” Hawke rubs the back of his neck. “Long story short, we went into the Deep Roads together, but your uncle and I walked out very rich, your father walked out somewhat mad, and my brother walked out a Grey Warden. Luckily we had an ex-warden with us when Carver, my brother, got bit, or he wouldn’t have walked out at all.”

“I don't understand.”

“Well, we were new to the city, nothing but lint in our pockets—”

“No your brother. You said he was bit.” There’s an odd shadow over her face. The room seems to drop a couple degrees.

Hawke starts, glancing at Varric. “Yes—” 

“That doesn’t make sense, Wardens don’t know how to heal the Taint. Everyone knows that,” she bites out. 

“It’s complicated,” Varric pipes up, shifting in his seat. 

“Then uncomplicate it.” She grips her fork so tight Varric can see her knuckles growing white. A dull throbbing starts in Varric’s chest, making it tight with a creeping sort of anxiety. To his side, Hawke remains still in his seat. Varric wants to look at him, see what he makes of the quick turn in mood, but he’s worried how Astyth will take it.

Hawke coughs. “If you’re quick enough, you can sometimes survive the Taint by going through a ritual called the ‘Joining.’ If you survive it, you become a Warden.”

“That doesn't make sense,” she repeats. “If that’s true, there’s no reason the Wardens wouldn’t tell everyone.”

“Part of the whole secrecy thing. Every Warden has the Taint, but only slightly. Eventually, it drives you mad,” Hawke continues. He’s poking around his plate, a feigned nonchalance.

“How long.”

“A couple decades—”

She throws her plate against the wall, the loud _crack_ kicking Varric’s heart into a fierce gallop. He can see Hawke make an aborted move to stand, hands clenched on the tabletop.

“Astyth—,” Varric starts. But she just flees, feet as quick and light as they ever are.

The room rings with silence.

Hawke clears his throat. “So, that went well.”

“Whatever it was that set her off, it’s not your fault,” Varric says with a sigh.

“I shouldn’t have run my mouth,” Hawke continues, face twisting unhappily. “I should apologize—”

Varric waves him away and stretches as he stands, pleasant buzz already wearing off. “No, seriously. Not your fault.” He pats Hawke on the shoulder as he crosses to leave. “And not your responsibility, I’ll handle talking her down off a ledge.”

Varric tries to make a joke of it, but under the palm of his hand he can feel Hawke flinch.

The kid’s gone for most of the night. Varric waits in her quarters, knowing she’d be too good at slipping past him unnoticed otherwise.

He brings a book with him, but barely registers any of the words floating in front of his eyes. Instead he stares at his long-ago nicked office clock sitting above the baseboard of her bed until it’s almost time for the switch in the night watch. Varric keeps staring at it, willing himself to get up and fetch Aveline’s help and the guard after _“just ten more minutes.”_ Andraste’s ass, he’s terrible at this. The kid had a minor tantrum and now he’s let her run off to be dead in a ditch somewhere. He’s no better than fucking Seron.

The door barely creaks open when she finally gets back, joints gliding open smoothly. Ever since she arrived in Kirkwall, the doors in the Keep barely squeak anymore. Explains all the missing oil from the storerooms.

She stares at Varric, something like guilt flickering over her features, before a defiant look burns bright and hot in its place. Her eyes are red and puffy.

It almost pisses Varric off, throwing his obvious worry back in his face. But the anger melts a half second later. At least she’s meeting him head on, rather than the fake mousy act.

“You want to talk about it?” he asks. It comes out gentler than he thought possible, throat still achy and tight.

She shrugs, aiming for an air of nonchalance that her shoulders are too tight with tension to quite sell. “The Wardens are a bunch of spineless idiots.”

It surprises a small laugh out of Varric. “You’re actually not the first to tell me that.”

“Well it’s true. They suck ass.”

Varric widens his eyes at her. “Well, he never quite put it _that_ way.” Mortifyingly, he gets an impulse to tell her to watch her language. He squashes it. “But then again, the Wardens have so many secret rituals, there’s no evidence they _don’t_ do that.”

He can see the moment she both quirks a smile and subsequently gets mad at herself for doing so.

“It seemed like you kind of liked hearing stories about the Wardens, though. At least at the beginning. Was it the Joining that changed things?” Varric fusses with putting a bookmark in his book so he doesn’t have to keep eye contact. “Did someone you know get the Taint?”

The kid blinks quickly and stares at the floor. Varric continues his fussing, giving her the space to find words. After a moment she nods jerkily.

“Is that how your mom got sick?” he continues. She shrugs. Varric feels the lump in his throat grow, but he swallows around it. It’s not like he didn’t guess as much.

“A couple of darkspawn attacked camp. She got bit, but. We were ‘lucky.’ There was a Warden nearby, and he killed off the rest. No one else got hurt.” 

Varric hums wordlessly. The kid runs the back of her hand against her nose. 

“We thanked the Paragons he was there,” she says, barely audible over her congestion. “When she was still lucid, mother made us thank the Paragons he was there and gave us more time to be together. She only lasted a week.”

He swallows, wanting to hug her but out of his depth. How do normal parents, or uncles, just _do_ this? Comfort each other? She’s just a child, and she’s already lost both a father and a mother to madness. Thank the Maker she didn’t have to watch Bartrand’s descent as well. At least for his brother, there wasn’t a way back from it. If someone told him now there was a way he could have helped him, fix him, now after he was already—

“I’m sorry,” he just says simply, at a loss how else to respond.

She gives a long shuddery exhale. “I just don’t understand why it’s a secret. There’s no reason. There’s no reason she couldn’t have tried to be a warden too.”

“Because they’re spineless idiots?”

She snorts, then makes a face. The kid grabs what he hopes is a clean handkerchief off her desk and blows messily into it.

After a moment she looks at him, and Varric feels caught out for staring.

“You can leave now,” she says, a thread of petulance in her voice. But her shoulders are relaxed, and she seems tired rather than just pent up and prickly.

Varric gives his own snort and ruffles her hair as he exits, dodging the venomous look she sends him in response.

He makes it about ten feet from her quarters before he stops and leans his forehead against the stone wall, eyes hot. He lets the cold ground him.

Varric eventually gets back to his own apartments, wanting nothing more than a hot bath or a cold glass of whiskey. Instead, he finds a mage camped out in his armchair.

Hawke stands with a wry smile as Varric unceremoniously dumps his jacket by the door. “Sorry, I know you said I should leave it, and I’ve got to meet up with some Jennies soon anyways, but I just wanted to—”

Varric cuts off Hawke with a tight hug. He smells like cinnamon.

They gossip about silly, trivial things, and share that glass of scotch for about another hour until Varric’s mind feels fuzzy and his limbs loose with fatigue. Hawke slips out, off to get into Maker knows what kind of trouble. Varric stumbles his way into bed. He’ll just arrange for that bath in the morning.

Something of a dam breaks after their conversation. 

Astyth’s no warmer to Varric, but it’s like a mask has been taken off. Instead of the fake, placid doll facade of their initial weeks together, she lets Varric glimpse at her true personality. Her weird quiet voice starts to fade out entirely, and he no longer has to strain to hear her over dinner. She even starts to pipe up and join the conversation, rather than just asking to pass the salt.

The issue is, however, that the kid is a _demon._

A snake in the grass, a deepstalker in the thaig. Even if Seron resembled a Paragon rather than the rat he was, there’s no wonder he wanted her safe and sound across the fucking sea. He can’t forgive the man, but Varric maybe understands him a little better. The little thief has lighter fingers than Cole, and is three times more anxiety-inducing than Sera.

Ritts wasn’t kidding, the insane little monster really does love the rafters. He even catches her scaling up a wall to the second story. There’s no way someone that short should be able to pull it off. She just stares at him, daring him to comment on her insane actions or the chalk dust on her hands. And like the coward he is, Varric just turns away like never saw a thing. 

He tries to ride the wave and get to know her a bit better, asking her about her family and so on, if she’s feeling a bit homesick.

The little thief shrugs, but it’s not a no.

“How about your siblings?” Varric asks. “I really haven’t ever met a dwarf with twins.”

“I guess it would be nice to see them again,” she says. Varric barely breathes, not wanting to spook her into clamming up. “Infants don’t really do much, but they were starting to get interesting when I left.”

Varric hums. “I was always the baby of the family.”

“And now you’re an only child,” she says, totally benign. 

Varric freezes.

“Ha, yeah. That’s a way to put it. So, any interest in seeking revenge?” he asks, chuckling weakly.

The little thief looks thoughtful. “Didn’t my father go crazy and torture a couple dozen servants to death?”

“Uh.” Varric coughs. “Yeah.”

“And I’m in your will, right? That’s why you’re my guardian now?” She still says it so, so benignly. Astyth picks lint off her tunic in complete and utter innocence.

Varric narrows his eyes. “Unless I die of suspicious circumstances.”

She taps her chin. He holds his breath, waiting to see if the fucking kid will call his bluff.

“Also, even if you’re Viscount, it’ll be wrapped up in a trust until you turn thirty,” he rushes out. Shit, he needs to contact his lawyer.

That seems to make the difference. “All water under the bridge, I never knew the guy,” she says with a toothy grin.

Varric is so fucked.

He has to hand it to her, though. If she wasn’t dead-set on becoming the next big cat-burglar and/or assassin, she’d have a decent shot of becoming a renowned prospector. It’s frankly impressive how she skips over gaudy gilded pottery, too mass produced to be worth the effort of lugging it away, but first edition tomes are nicked faster than he can have them replaced. Varric desperately wishes Bran had actually bought her a pony. The damn thing would be a much cheaper hobby than robbing him blind.

When maybe one or two things were being taken from the Keep a week, it could have been written off as accidental misplacements. Or some lingering sticky-fingers while the city finishes rebuilding itself.

But the sheer volume of missing goods is staggering. He only seems to be able to recover a fraction of it. Varric curses himself for ever bringing her along to official functions or events every other week. He thought he was weaning her into political life, but instead she was quietly noting every rich man and woman in Kirkwall. The Lucettes complain about a missing heirloom tea set over a reconstruction meeting, and Varric frantically tries to forget the time they bragged about it in front of the kid. Their home is toward the outer edge of Hightown, and there should be no way Astyth could have gotten that far without one of Varric’s people spotting her, especially now that they’re tipped off. But he flags it, and sure enough, one of the little thief’s vendors sells it back to him the next week.

In a way it’s almost comfortably nostalgic, buying out half the fences in Hightown to replace her nicked goods (plus a tip to keep embarrassing gossip from spreading). Maker knows where she met them. Ice forms in Varric’s veins at the thought of her working with the Carta again, but his spies continue to assure him that she hasn’t contacted or been contacted yet. 

Varric has a sneaking suspicion she rifled through his ledgers soon after becoming his ward, and worked off his list of purposefully “naive” shopkeepers who never ask where you got the goods. If Hawke hadn’t caught her sneaking out of the Keep, he shudders to think how big her network would be by now. He wonders if he should feel flattered that she’s getting bolder in her thievery now that she’s convinced he won’t chuck her out into the gutter. 

He almost laughs at that. Proof he’s guardian of the year! Maybe if _other_ people cared for their children more, they’d take up a life of crime too! It’s driving him to an ulcer. The more Varric thinks about it, the stronger he comes to the conclusion that the whole Tethras bloodline is cursed.

“Hawke, my whole fucking bloodline is cursed,” Varric whines. He throws himself down on the plush Orlesian fainting couch he has tucked in the corner of his office, and carelessly tosses his arm over his eyes. Not a move he normally uses, but he’s more wired than usual, and it’s not often he can relax this much in front of an audience.

He gets a faint snicker from Hawke, and peeking through his elbow he catches a small smile tucked in the corner of Hawke’s mouth before he returns to writing his damned letters. Well, that won’t do.

Varric sighs heavily and turns more into the couch with closed eyes, adopting an even greater air of displeasure and grief, the perfect troubled heroine. “Hawke, it’s like you don’t even care.”

“Get all your sighing out and I’ll give you some attention, you delicate daffodil.” As requested, Varric mournfully sighs a couple times and wriggles, trying best to copy the cover pose in _Swords and Shields Vol II: A Fever in Ferelden._ Faintly he hears the rustling of papers and the soft sounds of sand against parchment, drying the ink. Varric tries not to let his mouth twitch at the even gait of Hawke approaching the couch and sitting by his knee. He smells like basil today.

“Seriously, Hawke, I think she might slit my throat in my sleep. The other day Bran made me wear a fancy pocket watch to dinner with the Val Royeaux ambassador, and she looked at it so blatantly hungry I broke out in a cold sweat.”

Hawke gently pulls his arm away from his eyes with loose fingers around his wrist. Varric blinks up at him. “That sounds like a you problem.”

Groaning, Varric turns on his belly, but the bastard just laughs at him.

“I don’t know what to do,” he says, muffled into the cool velvet pillow. A warm hand settles on his back, slowly rubbing in giant, firm circles. Varric melts a bit, the pressure just hard enough to be grounding rather than ticklish.

“You’ll figure it out,” Hawke murmurs, a hint of laughter softening the bluntness of his words. Okay, half of this performance is to annoy his friend into paying him attention, but he _is_ tired. In the darkness of his closed eyes, warmth along his back and along the length of his thigh where he jostled up against Hawke, Varric finds himself giving into exhaustion and getting sleepy. “You’ve dealt with worse brats. Maker knows how you put up with Carver.”

Varric snorts. “Okay Carver was just bark and maidenlike blushing, but three of my penknives have gone missing, and only two—oh, keep doing that—only two were recovered from Korval’s stand.” Varric bites down on a groan as Hawke’s hands slide up the nape of his neck and scritch at the hairline.

“Again, sounds like a you problem. Why do you even have so many penknives?”

“My teeth hurt if I bite directly into apples.”

A soft puff of laughter as the hand on his nape stills. Before he can complain, Hawke gently but firmly cups the back of his head. Varric’s head is big _(“And dense!”_ the little Hawke in his mind snickers), but he can feel Hawke’s wide hands and thick, square fingers nearly cradling the entirety of his skull. It shocks Varric into sharp awareness, sleepiness melting away in a bolt, even though objectively he’s always known that Hawke isn’t a small man and was raised on a farm. Hawke gently but firmly— _firmly—_ turns Varric’s head until he’s forced to meet his gaze. 

“Hi,” Varric said, nonsensically. He doesn’t even mean to say it, just popping on out without his consent. He can’t stop thinking of Hawke tossing hay bales at druffalos. 

“Hi,” Hawke parrots back. He’s got this– this fond look on his face. It’s unbearable. “You’re going to hate me for saying this, but she’s not actually your kid. She has adoptive parents who will take her back. I like her, but you’re not solely responsible for her.”

Something in Varric’s gut twists. “I know.” He winces at the petulance in his voice and steadies it. “I know I’m not. But I am.”

Hawke’s face remains the same, but his hand tightens at the back of his skull. “I know that you think that, too. You always make the tough choice when it’s the right thing to do.”

_Like killing your brother._

But does he? Varric can almost see it, different tree branches splintering off, almost golden. He could have swept the murders under the rug, same as the damned fucking idol. He could have put Bartrand in a hospital, or even with the Chantry, and he could have tried to find a way to reverse the damage. He could have tracked him down, or tried to reconcile instead of chasing him out of town, stuck around long enough to see him start to slip. 

Or, better yet, he could have never found the thing to begin with. Never found the thaig, never even went to the Deep Roads to begin with. He could have just said fuck it, started a little operation with Hawke. Nothing fancy, just little smuggling gigs, turning tidy profits and making a small life together.

He could have, he could have—

But he didn’t. Bartrand’s dead. And so he doesn’t know if Bartrand would always have fucked him over, fucked over his little kid. Doesn’t know if things would have been different, just Hawke at his side drinking the watered down piss at the Hanged Man with the weight of the world on someone else’s shoulders for once.

He tries not to let the reminder of Carver sting, either. The brothers might not be on the best of terms, cutting and tense whenever they’re dragged back into orbit, but there’s a loyalty and love there. Even a loyalty toward Gamlen, Maker knows why Hawke bothers to keep in contact even after his mother’s passing.

Varric doesn’t have that, that knowledge that there’s something unconditional, something foundational between family.

“Let me help,” Hawke continues, voice no louder than a murmur.

Varric doesn’t know how to answer that without sounding unbearably needy, so he takes two fingers and digs them right above Hawke’s hip, the meaty side of his waist that always has him grimacing and twisting away.

“Not so fast, what’s that about liking the little cutpurse?” Varric said, eyes narrowing and ignoring the raw feeling lingering in his throat.

Hawke allows Varric to derail the conversation, letting go of him to slap at Varric’s offending hand. “Quit it, or I’ll hold you down myself and let her gut you over breakfast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> varric: i cannot be responsible to take care of another person
> 
> also varric: *takes care of everyone*


	4. Chapter 4

Hawke meanders on his way to the Keep, chewing on some fresh mint leaves. It’s creeping up to his six month anniversary staying in Kirkwall, and it’s making him feel nostalgic.

His house is still too bloody quiet, but now that it’s apparent his presence is becoming long term, he also hired a servant to come in once a week to help straighten things up. Plus, now that he’s started picking up more odd jobs for the Red Jennies, his days are more varied.

There’s a bodega selling fresh brussel sprouts and a knot of garlic, and lets himself fantasize for a couple minutes about throwing a small dinner party. The brat’s a grouch when it comes to food, but Mother could fry up brussel sprouts mean enough to make even the pickiest eater cry in wonder. He’s got the recipe tucked away somewhere. Plus, with both Varric and Hawke leading the way, it seems impossible she won’t pick up their aesthetic sensibilities.

 _Well, not with_ Varric _leading the way,_ Hawke chides himself. He needs to be reasonable and not overstep.

Movement catches the corner of his eye. It prickles at him, and Hawke slips away down an alley to follow it. 

Apparently his subconscious is more observant than he thought; he just catches sight of Astyth’s back scurrying away.

With a grin, Hawke slips on his hood and slips on a ring, gifted by Varric’s Tevinter mage friend the eve of storming Adamant. Apparently he found it in some weird elvhen tomb, and tossed it to Hawke, claiming that it was ugly and didn’t match his others.

“Keep it,” Pavus insisted, an amused look in his eye. “Varric’s been sweating and fretting for weeks, and personally I am sick of it! Do take care not to die, or the dwarf will be _insufferable.”_

Hawke thanked him, comforted that Varric was at least being looked after by the mad fools fighting an unwinnable war. And then he more sincerely thanked the mage later after he got a taste of its enchantment. 

He breathes low and even, focusing his concentration on the ring. Unless he’s startled or distracted, it allows him to step into the shadows and move unnoticed. Even if someone tries to look at him while he’s wearing it, their eyes slip away, unable to hold focus. Hawke doesn’t use it for anything perverse, but now that he no longer travels with rogues at his side, ambushing smugglers from the center of their camp is _extremely_ satisfying.

This far from the Keep, Astyth gets sloppy with sticking to the shadow herself. Hawke silently tsks to himself. While yes she’s less likely to be spotted by one of Varric’s spies, she’s more likely to get picked on by a random mugger. He makes a mental note to invite her out more on _properly chaperoned_ trips around the city.

She quickly cuts up a drainpipe to launch herself over a low wall. Must be a regular route; she seems confident she’ll land on her feet before she’s even in the air.

Hawke sighs. The wall isn’t as tall for him, but he’s also not a spring chicken anymore and his back screams bloody murder if he so much as sleeps funny. With a little boost of magic, he hops over and catches up to the brat ducking into a nondescript shop.

He slips off the ring, no chance he’s letting the little kleptomaniac know about its existence, and confidently walks inside.

It’s _very_ satisfying when she whips around and stares at him with shocked eyes.

“Don’t mind me, serah,” Hawke says to the shopkeeper, who’s staring at the two of them with open suspicion. “I have some purchases to make, but I’ll let the young lady finish up.”

She stares at him, mind obviously turning in circles, trying to catch the trick. Slowly, she lays down the object she snatched up as soon as he entered.

“Oh that’s lovely,” he says, grinning wide enough to hurt. This’ll be fun. “Is that a first edition?”

“I wouldn’t know,” the shopkeeper rushes out the same time Astyth says, “Yes, it is.”

“Very well, could you please wrap up the book for me when you're done? I think I’d like it.”

The man glances quick between them, and nods concedingly. “Of course, serah. It’ll be two gold coins and fifty silver.”

Hawke hands him the money. Steep, but not bad. If need be he’ll just get reimbursed by Varric.

The brat puts two cufflinks on the counter, shiny in the watery light from the lanterns. 

“Dragonbone,” she proclaims. They’re not, just a fake with cheap opal. From the look in the shopkeeper’s eye, he’d agree with Hawke.

Hawke snorts. “Sure, alright then. I’d like those, too.”

“Fifty gold,” the man attempts. The brat brightens up, pleased at her big score.

“Serah.” Hawke raises a brow. _“Really.”_

The shopkeeper grins with a _had to try it!_ look, and offers him a more reasonable ninety silver quote. The brat looks crestfallen, but it’s only her fault for believing some cheap or ignorant noble braggart.

Prizes acquired, the three of them stand in the room awkwardly.

“Gregor,” she says. “My cut.”

He hesitates, but Hawke shrugs and gestures his approval, and he forks the coin over to her. Hawke can see the calculations running in her head—the amount she was paid, and the final price the items were sold.

She glances at Hawke, weirdly shy.

“Go on,” he encourages. 

The brat turns back to the shopkeeper and begins to haggle. His face is pinched sour, but the combination of a child’s annoying energy aimed directly at him and Hawke’s crossed arms behind her makes him cave with a couple extra handfuls of silver. But he kicks them both out into the street immediately after.

The two of them start walking back to the Keep, but first Hawke leads them out of the alley. There’s no need to risk getting stabbed by one of the gangs, not when the brat’s already been caught. On a whim, he redirects them through Lowtown. Hawke points out several landmarks and quizzes her, trying to gauge how familiar she is with the city’s layout. She guesses a couple questions wrong, but on the whole he’s impressed.

“Was that the first time you checked how much your goods were sold for?” he asks when the conversation lulls. 

“I know how much they’re worth,” she sullenly says.

“Rookie mistake.” Hawke tsks. “Not the same thing. Come on, this way.”

After a couple minutes of walking she pipes up. “Why were you following me?”

“Would you believe me if I said it was pure coincidence?” He laughs a little at the disbelief on her face. “Alright, but truthfully I saw you by accident and wanted a look at your operations myself.”

Her eyes widen. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Hawke laughs again, loud and bright. “Did you actually think we didn’t know? Maker’s Breath, if you want a career in petty crime, you need to brush up your observational skills.”

“That's not what I want,” she says, no more than a whisper.

“Oh? Then what is it you want?” He sobers and stops her at the corner of the street. “Truly, being serious. What do you want?”

She shrugs.

“Is it the money? The thrill? The attention?” Hawke sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. She just stands still, eyes trained on the ground. “I’m not mad, but I _am_ a little concerned. I know your uncle is, too. There are ways to get money, thrill, and attention other than making him waste time buying back everything you’ve stolen. Ways that won’t end with you dead in a ditch.”

She seems to hunch inwards, into herself.

He continues, gesturing to a building across the way. “Do you see that little building over there? Do you know what it is?” He waits for her to look and shake her head. “It’s run by Lirene, nice woman. Before you were born, she used to deal primarily with Fereldan suppliers. After the Blight, she could have switched gears, opened up negotiations with Rivain, or Tevinter. Instead she turned her storefront into a charity. It was hard, ungrateful work, but she did it because people were suffering and they needed help. People threw rocks through her windows more than once to get her to stop helping out us lazy, no-good Fereldan dogs.”

In the distance, he can hear the various booths yelling the quality and quantity of their wares. It’s comforting, being back in a busy city after too long in the country, uprooting or on the run every couple days.

“Nowadays, she and her daughter sell mostly weapons and armor. But they also kept the cash box open, and she still helps anyone who lost their homes or loved ones in the Rebellion or from the Breach,” he continues. “You are the ward of the most powerful man in Kirkwall, and when you're not busy attempting to break your ankles flipping off of buildings, you’ve got some of the best tutors in the city. There are more productive ways to spend your time and use your talents.”

She scrapes her shoe against some loose gravel. “Is this the part where you tell me to put the coins in the donation box?”

“Do _you_ want to?” he asks, genuinely curious. “Why?”

“Because, I don’t need it? I guess,” she says, uncertain. 

“If you don’t need it, why did you get it?”

“To prove that I could.”

“Prove to whom?” She seems at a loss how to answer that, so he takes pity on the poor girl. “Come on– Maker, why did you let me talk that long? It’s already cold out, and now I’m parched.” He starts to walk away, but she stands still. “Astyth?” 

“Has he really been buying everything back?” she asks, voice still small. Hawke’s heart clenches. Varric’s affection for the child is so obvious to him, he thought anyone could see it.

“Everything we could find.” He wags his fingers at her, showing off his sweet, beloved returned gloves. “I’m actually quite annoyed with you for nicking these, by the way.”

“I should pay him back.” She sounds firm. It’s cute, she still barely comes up to Hawke’s hip and she sounds ready to ride into battle.

“Yes, that would be a nice gesture.” Silly, but nice. She’d need to pick up a second job to pay back Varric at this rate.

She hesitates briefly, and then seems to come to a decision. “No. He’s rich enough.” She marches past Hawke, making a beeline for Lirene’s. Hawke whistles as he follows, steps light.

“Let’s go on holiday,” Hawke says, deliberately casual and aloof. It’s a perfect idea.

Varric lowers his spoon. “Hawke, I mean this in the nicest way possible, but are you insane?”

“Why not! It’s the beginning of spring, love is in the air, and you’re cooped up here at your desk.” Hawke gestures at Varric’s sad lunch, a pathetic split-pea soup, and at the seemingly endless stack of papers he’s been sorting all week. Hawke barely sees Varric lately, too caught up in Viscount duties to join their usual dinners.

“A couple days of warm weather does not mean spring. Technically it’s still winter.”

“Kirkwall doesn’t have a winter, its only two seasons are—”

“—muggy and wet, I know, I know. Perks of our great city.”

Hawke gives Varric his best pout.

“Quit it,” Varric says, but it’s obvious his reservations are crumbling. “Something might be fun. The kid barely commits any grand larcenies anymore, a family outing could be a nice reward. _But,”_ he says, as serious as he can be while still holding soup, “not a full holiday. A summons to attend an Exalted Council by the end of spring is looking more likely by the day. _Real_ spring.”

Hawke tries not to preen at being included in a hypothetical family outing. “What about a day off for a picnic, somewhere outside the city?”

Varric narrows his eyes at him. “You already have a place in mind, don’t you.”

Hawke tugs out Varric’s well worn city map of the Kirkwall larger area and points to a curve of land close to the east end. “Right here, I’ve been scoping it out. There’s a beautiful waterfall, but there aren’t any tunnels or caves, and strategically it’s an abysmal place to smuggle anything. The beach is too open, and it’s close enough to the city walls that it’s easy to be spotted by the Guard.”

“Sounds too good to be true,” Varric says sarcastically.

“Well,” Hawke wiggles his fingers, hoping it’ll placate him. “There was an eensy-teensy demon, but I killed it ages ago, and it’s perfectly safe now, honest.”

“Right, other than the _demon.”_

 _“Dead_ demon. And I dug up all the corpses, so really, it’s safer than most of Kirkwall.”

“A blind bar fight is safer than most of Kirkwall.”

Hawke gives Varric another signature pout. Varric pushes his hand over Hawke’s eyes, so he can only hear the resignation in Varric’s voice when he agrees.

Varric arranges a small carriage to take them close to the picnic site, which gives Hawke plenty of fodder to tease. Varric swats at Hawke, but it loosens some of the tension in Varric’s shoulders. Honestly, for all Varric espouses creature comforts, he’s shockingly terrible at taking a day of relaxation. 

The brat struggles under the heavy load of her food basket, so for the fifth time, Hawke offers to carry it. And for the fifth time, she vehemently refuses. Ah, the energy of the youth. Also, it’s practically impossible to convince little girls to put down heavy objects once they’ve mustered enough pride to pick it up the first place.

Eventually, Hawke leads them to the waterfall.

He wasn’t lying—it really is a perfect spot. The waterfall is high, but only dangerous if you slip on the rocks and accidentally hit your head. Sundermount is mostly dry and its forest is sparse until you hit the upper mountains, but the foliage here is shiny and green. The stream goes around a bend and leads into a larger lake, calm and peaceful. It’s the kind of watering hole that would have made a childhood-Hawke cry with envy.

Hawke dumps his bags in a dry and shady spot by the bank, and strips quickly out of his jacket.

“Last one in the water is a stinky Varric!”

Varric calls out an indignant _Hey!_ behind him, but unsurprisingly Hawke lands in the cool water with Astyth at his heels long before Varric is able to even tug off his boots.

Varric takes his time ambling over, and makes a meal out of carefully dipping just one toe in the water. Hawke flicks some water at him, because he’s an immature asshole, and laughs at Varric’s glare.

Astyth loses her footing on the rocks, so Hawke helps right her.

Varric stares at her, brow wrinkled in concern. “Do you know how to swim?”

“I’ve been in the water before,” she says. She’s not as sly as she thinks, both Hawke and Varric are able to hear the ‘no’ in her non-answer.

“Let’s get the blanket set up,” Varric asks. Astyth rolls her eyes, mood soured, and follows him to their ditched bags. Hawke luxuriates in the feel of cold water against his flushed skin for a couple moments before joining them in the dirt.

The three of them sit for a while, having a couple snacks and enjoying the nice weather as the icy tension slowly starts to thaw. They trade stories, Hawke even sharing a couple from his youth to try and lift everyone’s spirits.

“Maker, the last time I relaxed like this by a waterfall, I must have been sixteen, seventeen years old. I did so many cannonballs into the water the blacksmith’s daughter nearly beat me.” Hawke chuckles at the memory. “‘Garrett, if you don’t stop, I’ll tan your hide to Tuesday!’ No matter she was a full two years younger than me and weighed no more than a hundred pounds soaking wet, I ran like a nug out of hell.”

The brat wrinkles her brow. “Your name’s not Hawke?” she asks, forgetting to be sullen.

“Well, it _is_ my family name. My full name is Malcolm Garrett Hawke, after my father and my maternal great-grandfather, but nobody ever calls me that.” Hawke taps his nose, right on the ridge where an improperly set break left it slightly crooked. “Just ‘Hawke,’ after my big beak.”

“Even your brother?”

“Yes, and Maker did he hate _that_ at first. Thought I was gobbling up all the family glory and attention. When I was quite young, the other villagers would call me Garrett. My family used to call me Mal, but after my growth spurt I decided that going by my surname made me mysterious and mature.” Varric snorts. Hawke elects to ignore him. “By any case, it stuck, and here we are. I suppose if I ever have a family, they’d probably call me something different.”

“Like what?” Varric pipes up.

Hawke taps his chin. “I don’t know. I suppose it depends.” He shrugs. “‘Mal,’ probably. ‘Malcolm’ would be too weird, and it’s ages since someone actually used ‘Garrett.’ I probably wouldn’t even respond to it.”

Astyth darts her eyes at Varric. “Aveline said that Varric gives everyone nicknames except for her.”

Hawke turns to fully look at Varric. “Did you ever give me one? You’ve called me ‘Champion’ once or twice, but just to be annoying.”

“What are you talking about, I’ve called you ‘Chuckles’ plenty of times!”

“Isn’t that your name for that bald elf?” Hawke gasps, mock outraged. “Varric! You can’t just _recycle_ nicknames!”

Varric shrugs. “Does it help if I told you that you came first?”

He sniffs. “Somewhat.”

“Fine, just don’t tell him that if you ever see him.” Varric shudders with his whole body. “Solas is probably holed up in another cave somewhere, freaky bastard.”

“Caves are cool.” The brat puffs out her chest like she’s her Paragon name-sake. “You’ve just got no Stone Sense.”

“Oh come on, you’re not exactly one with the Ancestors, little thief,” Varric says, cracking up. “I’ve literally never met a dwarf more committed to climbing tall trees.”

Astyth narrows her eyes. “Well _I’ve_ never met a dwarf so self-hating.”

“Who? Me? I’m my own biggest fan, isn’t that right, Hawke?”

“Hm?” Hawke lays on the ground, head a couple inches from Varric’s knee, and deliberately closes his eyes. “Apologies, very hard to hear you over your massive ego, what was the question?” He's comfortable, but he toys with the idea of shifting and letting his head rest on Varric's thigh.

Hawke keeps his eyes closed, grinning to himself, when he suddenly feels something wet in his ear. Sputtering and pretending he didn’t just scream, Hawke sits up. Varric wiggles his pointer finger at him.

“Did you _lick_ that?” Hawke shrieks. “And put it in my _ear?_ Are you a _child?”_ He launches himself at Varric, trying to grapple him into a headlock. “What’s wrong with you!”

“Mercy, mercy!” laughs Varric, out of breath. They tussle for a bit, until Varric pushes Hawke onto his back. He licks his finger menacingly.

 _“Not_ happening, dwarf.” Hawke casts a bodylock spell on Varric, leaving him paralyzed above him. Hawke laughs at his frozen face, imaging the annoyed look he would be making if he could. But he quickly scans for any sharp rocks and gently tips Varric on his back. Hawke carefully undoes Varric’s boring ponytail, and redoes it so it sticks out at the top of his head instead. “Much better,” he says, snickering.

Hawke likes to imagine he sees Varric’s eyes crinkling with amusement. Casting magic on dwarves is a bit trickier sometimes, like trying to magic water on a duck—a metaphor Varric does _not_ like Hawke to use—but it’s easier when you know the person. 

Smugly, Hawke thinks this was a pretty good idea of his. Varric’s always handsome, but it’s different out here than in the city. Even as Viscount, Varric doesn’t necessarily dress the part, forgoing dress uniform to wear open chested jackets, the vain bastard. But out here he’s dressed even more casually, a flattering rust colored tunic that Hawke hasn’t seen him wear since pre-Mage Rebellion. As much as he bemoans the hazards of nature to the comforts of city life, he looks good against the dirt and leaves. Some of the tiredness and stress are finally starting to melt from his eyes. 

It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask Varric if he wants the empty rooms in the estate, but he’s used to swallowing it down. Hawke’s only in the city to help Varric out, not control his life. But he should definitely keep bullying Varric into taking days off.

Hawke idly considers other embarrassing hairstyles to inflict on him when Varric’s eyes dart behind Hawke’s shoulder and he makes a panicked choking noise.

“Varric, what–” Hawke says, dropping the bind immediately.

“Stop!” Varric bellows, loud and harsh against Hawke’s eardrums, but to something over his shoulder.

With a wince, Hawke twists around and just catches sight of Astyth at the top of the waterfall.

And then she flings herself off of it.

Heart in his mouth, Hawke freezes as he watches her land in the water with a loud splash.

Varric mutters curses behind him and scrambles to the bank. Hawke follows a moment later, kicking himself. She must have slipped away when Hawke was distracted by Varric. Irresponsible. She’s paddling awkwardly to the shallower end, so Varric fully throws himself in to help pull her ashore.

“I got it,” she snaps.

“Do you?” Varric fires back. “What the hell were you thinking?”

She curls inwards, like she’s startled that Varric’s upset and doesn’t know how to deal with it. “Just because _you_ don’t want to swim doesn’t mean I can’t.”

Hawke awkwardly shifts, wanting to step in but not overstep. “Hey, maybe we could—”

“Not now, Hawke,” Varric says, at the same time Astyth goes, “Shut up.”

“Hey,” Varric says, frustration clear in his voice. “Show him some respect.”

“Why? You don’t own me, I don’t care what stupid contract you have. You don’t even like me, stop telling me what I can and can’t do.” She stomps her little leg as hard as she can. “All you do is ignore me and care about being known as the good little Viscount.”

Varric’s face drains of any color and he looks like he’s been slapped. Hawke sucks in air through his teeth. Got to hand it to children, they can zero in on a person’s insecurities like none other.

When Varric fails to respond, Astyth flushes and takes off down the bank alongside the stream.

“Varric,” Hawke starts, not sure how to finish the sentence. The child follows the riverbank around the bend, just a smudge in the distance.

“No, it’s okay.” Varric won’t meet Hawke’s eye. “She couldn’t have known that punch was going to land. I should go after her.” He makes no move to leave.

“Let me deal with the brat. Relax for a bit.” Hawke squeezes his arm.

“Thanks, Hawke.” Varric gives a self-deprecating huff. “I know I’ve been saying that for months, but I mean it.” 

“I want to,” Hawke says, and then leaves, in case it comes out needier than he intends.

Hawke lets his feet crunch on twigs and rocks in an effort not to spook the brat. She only went far enough to disappear from sight around the curve. Astyth’s sitting by the water, making a little mound of riverstones.

“Relaxing holiday, no?” he calls to her.

She places another stone.

Hawke sighs dramatically, sprawling on the dry bank next to her. “Back to the cold shoulder, I see. Lucky me, I’ve always thought children should be seen, not heard.”

Astyth tenses at that, finally facing him with a glare. “Stop it.”

“She speaks!” he hoots. “A shame, really. I wasn’t kidding about the being seen bit.”

“If you want me gone that bad, then,” she starts, but doesn’t finish her thought, biting it off. She concentrates on her little pile of stones, an angry flush high on her cheeks.

Hawke’s chest clenches. “He’s not going to send you away, and he cares about you, so there’s no need to keep testing him.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are. And it’s okay. I’m an older brother, we know these things.” Somehow he manages to say that with a straight face. He’s not unfamiliar with Carver’s stroppy moods, but it’s not like they have the relationship of the year, either. “Say whatever you need to say to him, but know that the worse you lash out, the more embarrassing it is to apologize later. And the longer you wait to apologize, the even more embarrassing it gets.”

They sit in silence for a while, cool breeze pleasantly tempering the hot sun overhead. If Hawke had any artistic talent, he’d be of half a mind to paint the scene. Trees soft in the background, the water clear and winking in the sunlight.

Hawke steals glances at the back of the brat’s head where she can’t catch him looking. With a soft breath, he’s struck with a faint memory of Lothering. He got in an argument, a silly one, and ran off into the bushes, face covered in angry tears. After an hour or two of sullen hiding, his father finally caught up to him. Coaxed him back out by sitting quietly, patiently, until he was bored by his own hurt and ready to be hugged and fussed over. It’s been years since he thought of his father like that.

“I’m an older sister, too.” She sounds softer, not as sharp around the edges.

Hawke hums. “And to twins! You have to start paying attention when they learn to talk, though. They start ganging up on you, or worse, _they_ fight and drag you into the middle of it.”

With a soft _plop,_ she starts throwing the rocks back into the river, one by one. They sit in silence for a couple minutes longer. A lizard rustles in the bushes.

“What would I even say,” she asks, voice flat.

“The truth!” He snorts, practically able to see her eye roll despite only having a view of the back of her head. “Alright, fine. Truth plus. Truth, but enough kind words peppered in to soothe any remaining ruffled feathers. You were feeling small, and you lashed out, but you regret it and you’re _ever_ so sorry, and so on. He values honesty, and the only thing he doesn’t easily forgive is intentional cruelty.”

Another soft _plop._ “I was cruel on purpose.”

Hawke tosses his own rock into the lake, for want of something better to do with his hands, like pinch her cheeks. “You’re also, like, a child. Varric and I were drinking buddies with a terrorist. I think he’ll get over a little tantrum.”

She makes a soft noise, like a swallowed laugh. “You’re the worst.”

“Perhaps. But forgive yourself. I promise you he already has.”

“I wasn’t even that mean, I don’t get why he got so upset,” she says, a hint of petulance. “You’re way worse to him.”

“Ah, but I know where he hides his hurt, and I try not to press on it. You’ll learn too, when you’ve gotten to know him a bit longer.” The grass is too short and stubby by the bank. If he was in Lothering, he’d pick the longer blades and weave a crown out of them. “You should ask him about it, later. If you ask genuinely enough he might even tell the truth.”

Astyth finally turns, regarding him with a raised brow. The color has lifted from her face, but she still looks unhappy.

“Is this how it’s always going to be?” she asks. “I stomp off and you have to drag me back?”

“Maybe if you stop stomping off, I won’t have to.”

She throws a clump of mud at his chest.

“Right!” he says, jumping up with glee, gladly allowing the tension to break. “If that’s how you want to play it!”

With a shriek, the brat tries to sprint away. But she’s also, like, the smallest child Hawke has ever met, and his long legs catch up to her in seconds. He casts a quick barrier spell on her, nothing too fancy without his staff on hand, but powerful enough to prevent any nicks or bruises.

Grabbing her up under her armpits, Hawke tosses her into the shallow end of the lake. She sputters and surfaces, yelling at him a number of curses colorful enough to bleach his hair white. But there’s also a grin stretching wide and bright across her face, so he’s emboldened to send a small wave her way, aided only slightly with magic.

They splash around for a while longer, until the sun starts to dip, signalling the late afternoon. The air gets cooler, but the water stays warm and comfortable against their skin. He can tell she’s getting tired by their antics, so he carefully teaches her some basic swimming forms, and then how to lie back in the water, relaxed yet posture straight, so she can float easily on top of it.

It’s– it’s nice. He doesn’t remember helping the twins to swim, and by the time he was confident enough to help someone else out, he and Bethany were trying to keep a distance with the other children so as to not attract any attention. In the deep, dark corners of his mind, Hawke had always imagined doing this with his own child one day. 

At least, until the sky opened and demons poured out. Then it felt selfish, almost, to think of that. The idea of having a kid just to have one, when he couldn’t—and can’t—guarantee their safety, or even the continued existence of the fucking world. Maker preserve him, imagine having another child with Amell blood. The Inquisition and Divine Victoria may have calmed the Mage-Templar war, but who knows what the world will look like for the next generation. Thank the Maker Astyth is a dwarf. 

A bright, silverbacked fish swims up to him, curiously nibbling by his toes before darting away. Hawke welcomes the distraction, but a thorn from the earlier conversation sticks at him. 

_Is this how it’s always going to be?_

It needles him, like a sore tooth his tongue won’t quit poking at.

With a small sigh, Hawke drops out of his restful pose on the water’s surface and stands, toes wiggling in the soft silt. “You hungry? I could murder an entire pork roast.” 

With a small nod she drops down as well, although Hawke guides her by the arm until the bank is shallow enough for her to stand on her own.

They walk back to the mouth of the waterfall together, each step undoing Hawke’s work by making her more and more tense. But instead of angry, she’s curled inward, ashamed. It’s not like Hawke didn’t warn her about putting this off.

Finally they reach the picnic site. Varric’s on the blanket and leaning against a log, poorly pretending to be caught up in his book. Hawke’s mouth twitches at the sight of Varric’s nose and cheeks, pink and shiny from sitting in the sun all afternoon. Hawke’s abandoned jacket is draped over the log so Varric doesn't have to lean against rough bark, the princess.

“Too lazy to get firewood, dwarf?” he chides, breaking the silence. Despite the tense air, warmth spreads from the center of his chest down to his fingertips. He taps the brat on the shoulder. “Go make sure bugs haven’t gotten into the food, I need to be a responsible adult for a moment.”

Hawke ducks into the sparse woods, not making too quick of an effort. He hears soft voices as he leaves, but doesn’t allow himself to eavesdrop.

When he finally makes his way back to the two of them, a decent bundle of dry firewood in hand, Astyth and Varric are chatting about the book. As he gets closer, Hawke realizes it’s less friendly chatting and more brutally tearing it apart, chapter by chapter.

There’s an odd flip to Hawke’s gut. On the one hand, he’s happy they’ve sorted out their apologies in the time he was gone, but on the other…

It’s nearly dark now, sun peeking over the top of the mountain. It takes Hawke until he’s nearly done with the small fire pit for it to click. The brat says something particularly scathing about the spoiled protagonist, and Varric laughs unbridled and loud. They seem like– they seem like a unit. A bubble, with Hawke fluttering around in the wind.

_I stomp off and you have to drag me back? Maybe if you stop stomping off, I won’t have to._

But that’s not it. All Hawke did was sandpaper some coarseness between them. Without him, he has every trust that Varric would have mended any hurt feelings. All Hawke did was keep her company in the meantime. 

“Hawke, stop fussing and come back here. You’re making me anxious,” Varric whines.

Hawke clambers over. The tips of his hair are already drying, but the long haircut is still damp enough to be shaken obnoxiously in Varric’s face. Varric laughs, slapping him away gently.

They distribute the food, heating up the dishes on the small fire. Varric breaks off a piece of druffalo jerky, placing it in Astyth’s bowl. Unlike the reserved behavior at official functions, out here in front of the fire, all manners are dropped. She tears into like a wolf, barely registering when Varric tosses another piece her way. She's more like a kid, and less like the tiny terror demon plaguing the Keep.

Hawke’s heart clenches, but he smiles and laughs and pretends to have read the book they’re complaining about. Just because his placement in this family is temporary doesn’t make it any less sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alt moral of the story is that i think hawke would make a cool camp counselor


	5. Chapter 5

It’s well into evening by the time they leave the mountain and return to their awaiting carriage and guard. Varric’s not stupid, and even in the best of times it’s not like Sundermount is a vacation getaway spot. He’s grateful Hawke cleared the site of any bandits or lingering corpses yesterday and this morning, but it’s not like he didn’t arrange to have backup hidden over the ridge, not when the little thief is with them. It’s a somewhat flagrant disregard of authority, but if the Council pressured him to have a ward, they could deal with some comped group bonding exercises.

And maybe also he had the foresight to know that direct sunlight saps his energy, and nearly tears up with relief when their cozy, comfortable carriage comes into view.

Speaking of the little thief, she’s barely able to keep her eyes open, the physical and emotional activity of the day finally catching up with her. As soon as they sit in the booth, she lists to the side, head resting against Hawke’s shoulder.

Maker, that’s a sight. Hawke’s got a fond smile on his lips, and the kid is completely conked out before they even get moving. He gets another dangerous impulse to thank Hawke again, for sticking around, for helping him with this impossible task.

After Hawke took off to clean up Varric’s mess, Varric fretted and dipped his feet in the cool water until anxiety nearly overtook him. Just how _long_ was Hawke going to take? But when he crept after them, he only heard Astyth’s bright laughter, and Hawke playing with her with an ease Varric wished he had. When it became clear that they weren’t coming back any time soon, Varric fished out a book from Astyth’s bag rather than go insane. It’s an earmarked copy of _The Heir of Verchiel,_ a novelization of the play and well-regarded as a seminal piece of Orlesian fiction. It’s also mind-numbing. He’s not expecting any of his works to be taught in a class, but at least his murder series’ are _fun_ to read.

Eventually, Hawke and the thief returned. Hawke made a lousy excuse to leave them alone, and then they were two. Varric winced. He’s the adult here, he should apologize first—

“I’m sorry,” she said, voice low. “I was cruel to you, on purpose.”

Varric closed his gaping mouth, thought about it. He nodded once. 

“Yes,” he said. “You were. But you are allowed to be upset with me, too, little thief. I’m not trying to smother you, but I don’t want to see you get hurt either. Understand that it’s my job to keep you safe, and I can only do that if you let me.” He sighs. “We should have spent more time together like this. I know you’ve bounced around since your mom died.”

She shrugged. “Just with Seron.”

Varric hesitated. “You can still call him dad, you know. Even living here.”

“No, I don’t care. He was always disappointed if I didn’t call him that, but it’s not like I actually think he’s my father.” She said it matter of factly, like it wasn’t a wildly confusing line to walk as a child living in a new home.

“Ah.” Varric’s heart clenched. “Okay, well how would you like me to refer to him?”

Her eyes darted at him, quick, before glancing away. “Seron is fine.”

“Seron it is.”

They listened to the waterfall rushing beside them. 

“You don’t need to keep me as your ward. I can always go back.”

Varric sucked air in through his teeth. “Do you not want to stay—”

“No, I do.” She picked at her tunic in frustration. Varric let her find her words, though his heart felt like it was stuck in his throat. “But it’s not like me being here was your idea. I know I’m difficult.”

Varric shook his head. “Kid, no you’re not.”

“I’m literally here because I was too difficult to stay at home.” She gestured at herself. “You had no idea I even existed until they needed to ship me off.”

“Er, uh, listen. I know if feels like that, but your– Seron cares about you–”

“I’m not saying he _doesn’t,”_ she huffed. 

Varric sighed. Damn Hawke, abandoning him to this conversation all alone. “...Yeah, kid. It sucks.” 

The truth of the matter is, it _does_ suck and there’s not much he can do about it. He wishes he could tell her that her family will always love her, always support her, always pick her up when she stumbles. But he knows that’s not true. Sometimes just loving someone doesn’t mean you’ll be there, at least not without conditions. Hawke could tell her everything will be alright and all bonds could be repaired, and he’d mean it. Coming from Varric, though, the kid’s too smart not to smell a lie. 

“Yeah,” she parroted back. She seemed uncomfortable, but thankfully not as wound up as before.

“Want a hug?” Varric offered.

“No.”

“Right, uh. Me neither.” Varric rifled around the picnic bags, knowing he slipped in a bottle of white wine from the kitchen. It’s a nice dry vintage, therefore likely to make Hawke pout, but whatever. More for Varric.

“Can I have some?”

Varric snorted. “You’re like eleven, no way.”

“My mother used to let me have ale whenever we stayed in inns, Seron too.”

“Yeah, well, I’m who you’ve got, kid.” Varric said offhandedly, and then froze. Oh, _not_ the time for that. He glanced up at the kid, and she was staring back at him, shocked, eyes wide and glassy. “Shit.”

She blinked at him a couple times. “May I have that hug now, please?”

“Yeah kid, sure.” Varric opened his arms and waited for her to take a hesitant hug. “I’d like you to stay, as long as you want.” And he actually meant it, too. Granted, she _is_ a little difficult, but also he feels like if anyone tried to take her away from him, he’d bite them like a feral dog.

She held herself with tension until he squeezed her back, pressure firm until she melted in his arms. He also graciously let her rob him, only just barely feeling her nimble fingers make him several sovereigns poorer. He kind of deserved it.

When they settled back on the picnic blanket, she gestured to the book. “Is that mine?”

“Ah, yeah. Caught up on a little light reading.” He refused to feel bad for poking through her schoolwork. Again, he graciously did not point out his own lighter coin purse.

“Madame Moitessier made me read _The Heir_ before she left, and the new guy wants me to write a report on it, too.” There’s a weird something unsaid in her words. “It’s… interesting.”

Ah, he thinks.

“It’s terrible,” Varric countered, hedging his bets. It’s just blandly boring, only made worse by everyone else heaping praise on it. He’s read worse—Maker, he’s _written_ worse. But he was right in picking up an undercurrent to her tone, and finally stopped making missteps in the conversation. The kid perked up immediately, a glint in her eye reserved only for those about to mercilessly demolish a bad piece of writing.

“It _is,”_ she breathed out, practically vibrating. “It’s so, so bad. Dwarves should never have taught humans how to write.”

That startled a laugh out of Varric, and they went back and forth trading barbs against the poor, defenseless novel. Hawke said she tended to be quiet and reserved during lessons, but Varric honestly finds it hard to believe. She’s animated, and it’s obvious she was dying for an excuse to talk about it. He passed her the book so she could flip through and refer to her least favorite passages. It was also comforting, seeing her apply her quick thinking to scholarly diversions rather than petty crime.

By the time Hawke returned with a hilariously large stack of drywood, eyes just peeking over, it was like nothing ever happened, no harsh words ever traded. Hawke busied himself with the fire, making it difficult for Varric to catch his eye.

He wanted it, suddenly. Hawke to stop fussing, to join him on the blanket. If someone were to stumble by them now, they’d think they were a small family camping out for the evening. 

And now, in the carriage on their way home, if a bandit were to stop them, they’d think the same thing. Well, for a moment, and then they’d think about how it was a very poor decision to pick a fight with a well-oiled Bianca and a very pissed off mage. 

Varric dreads having to stop and drop Hawke off at his estate. Rebuilding the city, Varric had the bricklayers remake the main streets extra wide. It would make fires localized to blocks, rather than burn straight through the whole city, and it makes carriages and deliveries easier to transport through the city. While the city still isn’t based on a grid, each street got a name to make it easier to know where you were going. He had spent a whole week bragging about it to Hawke and Astyth, laying maps on the table as soon as dinner ended until they banned the subject. Varric still feels very smug about pushing through these developments, and as much as he wishes the night didn’t have to end, he’s exhausted and glad he doesn’t need to walk.

Hawke clears his throat softly. 

“Are you taking me back to my place first?” he whispers. Varric nods, and Hawke flicks his eyes to the kid, still out like a light. “Don’t bother. I’ll help carry the brat inside.”

Varric feels his lips twitch up, and he gives another silent nod before knocking gently on the carriage wall and whispering with the coachman.

It’s just— it’s just cute. Varric can’t think of a better word for it. The way they’re propped up against each other, sleepy and relaxed, is just _cute._ Usually the little thief fills him with dread during the day, but asleep she only looks like a child. Her hair is finally dry, lighter again than the dark brown it gets when wet. With her eyes closed she doesn’t much resemble Bartrand, but Varric knows her well enough now that her features feel familiar. With a pang, he realizes he stopped looking for the ghost of his brother in her face for a while now.

His ass is getting numb from being bumped over the uneven roads leading up into the city proper—mental note to add infrastructure to the monthly city council agenda—but the night air is cool and his eyes adjust almost instantaneously to the dark interior of the cabin. Hawke’s eyesight is good, sometimes cheating slightly with the aid of a magic, but Varric isn’t too much of surfacer to have lost his near-perfect eyesight in the dark. Varric uses the one-sided advantage to study Hawke’s profile as much as he wants.

The kid grouchily wakes up when the carriage comes to a stop at the Keep, but Hawke exits with them all the same. Varric gives a tip to coachman, as well as slipping him an extra silver, and follows a couple steps behind Hawke kindly herding the monster to her quarters.

Normally, Varric would just let the poor kid hit the hay straight away, but Hawke scowls at him and prods her to finish brushing her teeth and washing her face with a mild soap. Not unexpected, Hawke’s only luxuries seem to be soaps and herbs—fennel, cinnamon, basil, mint—to chew on throughout the day. Varric likes being clean and pampered, who doesn’t, but he’s a tad more materialistic than Hawke’s fastidiousness. But Varric’s equal measures endeared and envious that the little thief listens to Hawke without argument. 

“Do you need a bedtime story, little lady?” Hawke coos, voice syrupy sweet.

The kid flips them both a rude gesture, and Varric drags a laughing Hawke into the hallway.

They slump against the wall, stone cool against Varric’s back. He’s too tired not to give into impulse, so he leans over and rests his forehead on the warm line of Hawke’s arm.

Hawke curls, facing Varric until Varric’s head is cushioned in the dark planes of his chest. He wraps his arms around Hawke’s middle, and Hawke wraps one around his shoulder while the other rests in Varric’s hair, picking at the ponytail just to be an ass and mess it up.

Hawke’s long hair just grazes the top of Varric’s head, tickling him, and if Varric had any bones left in his body, they'd be itching to put it up into a braid.

“I thought parenthood was supposed to be easy,” Varric grouses, words muffled against Hawke’s chest. 

Hawke chuckles, and Varric can feel it thrum against him. “She’s Bartrand’s spawn, what else did you expect?” 

Varric shifts slightly, and in response Hawke hugs him tighter. He tries not to shiver at the feeling of Hawke’s fingers in his hair, successfully plucking out his leather strap and combing through it. Varric should feel embarrassed, it’s not like his hair smells of jasmine or orange blossoms like Hawke’s sometimes does, but it feels too damn good to care.

“It’s getting pretty late,” Hawke continues, barely more than a murmur. 

It’s not, nowhere close to their respective bedtimes on a normal day, but Varric sighs and drags himself away before he does something crazy and clingy and beg Hawke to stay for a nightcap. 

“Yeah, the carriage should still be waiting out front to take you home.”

“Oh– it’s not necessary.” Now that they’re far enough away to look at each other, Varric can catch Hawke’s face twisting. “I could just—”

Varric pats him on the shoulder, interrupting him. “Seriously, Hawke. I’ve already sucked up your entire day to my familial drama. Take the free ride.”

It looks like Hawke’s still going to argue, but instead he just smiles and gives Varric a small nod. “Until tomorrow, then.”

“Until tomorrow.”

Varric goes back to his quarters before he’s tempted to walk Hawke to the door, as if _that_ wasn’t equally crazy and clingy. The ghost of Hawke prompts him into brushing his teeth and washing his face.

It’s not until he collapses in bed that Varric realizes Hawke still has his hair tie.

Varric wakes early, but feels more refreshed than he has in ages.

Instead of skipping a morning meal or grabbing a bite in his office, Varric ducks away and sneaks to the kitchen. He asks the cook to prep breakfast for his quarters for the foreseeable future. Not anything too fancy, just some fruit and porridge, maybe some light fish. 

He waits until the next bell and knocks on the little thief’s door, mindful to avoid Bran and his other aides. They’re hard to ditch once they’ve spotted him, but he should be able to avoid beginning his bureaucratic duties before the day gets going.

The kid blearily opens the door. 

“Hey, kid. I’ve got breakfast, if you want to join me before your tutor arrives.”

She scowls at him. “Morning is for sleeping.” She closes the door in his face. A minute later, it opens back up again. She’s tied her hair back in a stubby ponytail, like a little mini version of him, and changed into a fresh tunic and pair of breeches. “Okay, ready.”

They eat pretty quietly at first, until she drinks a little more juice and starts to perk up, chatting idly about her upcoming classes.

At a lull in conversation, Varric clears his throat. “I was thinking we could do breakfast like this during the workweek, especially when it’s too busy to have dinner at a reasonable time.” He really should have done this sooner. She might not be his daughter, but he _is_ her guardian now, not a workaholic bachelor. His schedule needs to adapt.

She nods, shyly. “Not on the weekends?”

Varric laughs. “And risk you stabbing me when I wake you? No chance. We can still do dinner, though.”

Instead of smiling, she picks at her food with a serious look. “Varric,” she starts, “Hawke said I should ask you why you got so upset yesterday.”

“Ah,” he says. “Ha. Okay. It’s not that interesting of a story.” She continues poking holes in her porridge, feigning nonchalance. “Well, your father and grandparents used to live in Orzammar, but then your grandfather got into some legal trouble and had to move the family to Kirkwall, where I was born.”

She nods slowly.

“Anyways, it was tough on your grandparents, especially your grandmother when her husband passed away.” Varric rubs the back of his neck. It’s not exactly a _nice_ story either. “But they were surfacer by then, and that meant there was no going back. I guess I resented them, still do, for obsessing so much about lineage and status and wealth and all that, and not really caring about how I was doing. I never wanted to become that. It’s just scary, feeling like you’re becoming your parents. Not always,” he scrambles to say. “Your mom seemed pretty great.”

“You don’t have to eat breakfast with me every day,” she says, voice small. “I don’t actually think you’re ignoring me.”

“I know kid, but this is me being selfish. I don’t see you enough.”

She hides her smile in her porridge, but not fast enough for him not to catch it.

A knock on the door surprises him, and Varric yells for them to come in.

Hawke ducks his head into the room, raising his eyebrows at the spread. “What’s this! I swung by your office to make sure you wouldn’t starve, but I guess there’s no need.”

“Come in, Hawke.” Varric makes grabby hands. “And give me my tithe.”

Hawke snorts and pulls out a block of hard cheese and a pear. “Here, messere, please protect me from scoundrels.”

Varric cuts the fruit and cheese into slices, splitting it among the three of them. Hawke hums appreciatively at the pot of porridge and pours himself a cup, slathering butter on top. 

With a start, Varric realizes that Hawke’s using _his_ hair cord to tie his long hair back in a braid. Varric focuses back on his meal, not wanting to get caught for staring, or worse, staring with blatant approval. 

“Hawke, you should come tomorrow,” the little thief says, munching happily on a slice of pear.

He raises an eyebrow and looks to Varric, who shrugs agreeably. 

“Switching up family dinners to breakfasts, at least until things calm down.” Varric tries not to flush, embarrassed. It’s not like Hawke isn’t effectively part of them, but. It’s a lot to put on him.

Hawke reclines with a laugh. “When have I ever turned down free food?” But his small, soft smile stays on his lips throughout the meal.

Varric cracks open his window, desperate for fresh air to fill his stale office. It’s been raining for days straight, and he had to keep the windows shut if he didn’t also want the wind to scatter his papers everywhere.

Hawke’s in some dreary sewer tunnel somewhere, helping Aveline on a patrol, and Varric’s seconds from dying of boredom.

Even the kid’s been mopey with the weather, cooped up in her room reading books instead of running in the rain and dirt. She tried to argue with the sturdiness of dwarf constitution, and only just recovered from a bad cold. Varric tried very, very hard not to say _I told you so!!_ because he’s a mature, responsible adult, and instead fed her soup and gave what he thought was a reasonable lecture about how to always listen to him and how not to catch pneumonia.

But now that she’s better, she’s back to classes with her tutor. Hawke still sits in on her lessons every once in a while, filling Varric in between lengthy complaints, but Varric has yet to check in firsthand.

Varric hides from his subordinates and heads to her quarters to check them out. He’s able to sneak in unnoticed with relative ease, her mistake for compulsively oiling all her door hinges.

The tutor is giving a lecture on a book, a contemporary one about a lone hero braving the Deep Roads to redeem his honor, or something. Varric tries to suppress a giggle. Astyth has talked about it over breakfast for the past week. Not as poorly written as _The Heir,_ in her opinion, but she also thinks the author’s an idiot who’s never actually spoken to a dwarf before.

But when the tutor prompts her for her thoughts, she says nothing, just blandly parroting back his words at her. 

Varric makes a disbelieving noise, and both the tutor and the kid whip around to stare at him. He puts up a hand sheepishly. “Sorry for startling, I had some free time and wanted to stop by.”

“Of course, Viscount.” The man gives Varric a little bow, which is slightly embarrassing. “Your ward is a very agreeable pupil.”

“That’s a word for it.” Varric points his thumb at the hallway. “Can I steal the kid for a minute? Should be quick.”

At his nod, the kid follows Varric to the hallway, confusion evident in her features.

“Is everything alright?” he asks. “You feeling okay?”

“Of course,” she says, confusion clear across her face.

“Then what was that in there?” 

She stiffens at his words, and mentally Varric kicks himself.

“Listen, I’m not mad. I’m just confused.” He rubs his temples. “You hate this book, and not in an obstinate way. In a 'you understand the thematic beats and can critique it' kind of way. It’s a talent.”

“So?” she says, with a shrug.

 _“So,_ why didn’t you speak up? Are you feeling shy, does he not encourage you to engage with the material?” 

“Mr. Hinman is a good tutor.” She shifts awkwardly. “But no one likes a know-it-all.”

Now Varric feels baffled. It’s just the kid and the tutor, who is she trying to impress? But then he remembers how quiet she was in the beginning, how eager she was to slip unnoticed and become a wallflower.

He sighs. “If you really want to fly under the radar, I’ll support you. I’ll cache in some favors, have you summer in Orlais or Antiva to learn The Game– not _now,”_ he hurries to add, “in a couple years. If you’re older, and want to pick up those skills, we can talk. But you’re still a kid. If you want to have fun and do well in class, you should.”

“No one likes a know-it-all,” she repeats.

Varric’s heart clenches, finally hearing the unsaid quotation in her voice. It’s not something she thinks, but something someone has said to her. He’s really going to strangle Seron if he shows his face in Kirkwall again, which might become a problem next winter when he’s arranged for Astyth to spend time with her little cousins. But this turns certain things he thought to be true on the head. He assumed she was an odd little duck because she was plotting world domination. It didn’t occur to him that she was being quiet so they’d _like_ her.

“No, kid, that’s not quite true. No one likes a fake, you kids have a freakishly good nose for that, and no one likes a jerk. Being ‘good’ or knowledgeable with your studies isn’t a negative. Just don’t pretend to know more or less than you do, and encourage others to share their thoughts. Compassion and collaboration are the single most important skills to learn as a kid. You’re bright. Bring the energy that we use in our discussions to class. I’m not going to drag you kicking and screaming into the spotlight, but it’s okay to be noticed, too. You’re not just some random little kid, you’re the Viscount’s ward.” He coughs. “Okay, that's enough of my lecturing, go back inside.”

“Varric,” she says, and hesitates. “The cook’s son is hiding in the wardrobe.”

He sputters. “I– alright. Do you need me to? Kick him out? Are you alright?”

“No, don’t.” She shakes her head vehemently. “He just likes stories, but he can’t afford a private tutor and can’t read my notes.”

“Oh. Thank you for telling me.” His heart clenches. Compassion and collaboration indeed. “Seeing as I already pay Mr. Hinman a small fortune, I don’t see why the cook’s son can’t come out of the wardrobe.”

It pokes at the back of his mind. Varric had read about Denerim expanding schooling to non-paying kids. It’s not like there’s a massive scholarly scene in Kirkwall, but perhaps there won’t be one until he sets it up. The Tower has been sitting pretty much ignored for years, especially under all the rubble, but the foundation itself is solid and set up for various sized classrooms.

“Go on,” Varric continues. “Go rescue the poor boy.”

She nods, oddly shy, and takes a step towards the door, but darts back to steal a hug as fast as a blink.

And then Varric’s left alone in the hallway, mind already spinning with next steps.

When he finally gets back to his office, Bran’s waiting with a glint in his eye and a thick, heavy cardstock cordially inviting them to an Exalted Council at the Winter Palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sure the exalted council will go smoothly :)


	6. Chapter 6

Varric’s spy friend shows up a couple days before he’s set to depart to Halamshiral to share some prep work and Inquisition intel. She seems friendly, Hawke takes a liking to her immediately, and Varric invites her over to dinner to meet the brat. Varric putters around his quarters like he’s throwing an elaborate dinner party and if he doesn’t have the right color napkins, his debut in society will be a sordid disaster and he’ll _never_ secure a suitable engagement—

“I am not _puttering,”_ Varric grumbles.

Astyth looks up from her cards. “Hawke’s right, you kind of are.”

Hawke laughs and deals the two of them another hand. Varric fusses with the centerpiece, a “tasteful” gourd display.

“One day, kid, you’ll learn that hospitality and respect are the cornerstones of strengthening your network. Don’t blame me when you’re thirty and friendless.” Another cornerstone Varric swears by is an open bar, but she’s a little too young to learn that yet.

“Well when you’re done, Varric, come teach your niece how to cheat better at cards. She’s terrible.”

Astyth flushes. “No I’m not.”

Hawke points to her left sleeve. “Then there’s not a Knight of Roses in there?”

The brat blinks, pure innocence. “No.”

Hawke hums appreciatively, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “She’s got a great Wicked Grace face, no training needed.”

She’s saved by a knock on the door.

“Ritts!” Varric yells in greeting. “You’re damn late again.”

The elf shrugs, not apologetic in the least, and pulls him into a one armed hug. She’s lugging a clothed case behind her, and she gently sets it in the corner of the room. They put down their cards and Hawke sneaks a quick peek at the brat’s hand before joining Varric by the door.

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Hullo, Messere Hawke, good to see you again,” she says. Ritts turns to Astyth, who’s grown shy, standing just behind Varric. “And you must be Miss Astyth. It's very nice to meet you properly.”

She gives a little curtsy, neat and polite. But her eyes drag to the clothed container. “What’s that?” Her manners follow her curiosity a second later. “Serah.”

“I’ll show you, but you need to be very still, and very quiet.” Ritts slowly pulls back the cloth and reveals a sleepy red-tipped raven, who lets out a confused little croak at them. “His name is Barnaby, and he helps me communicate with my boss. Very important work. And birds are very loyal, if you train them right.”

Astyth’s eyes are as wide as saucers, and she slowly follows Ritts to investigate the bird closer.

As the elf gives her a small lecture on the raven, Varric leans into Hawke. “Did you just get a shiver up your spine? Not sure I ever want the Nightingale within city limits of the kid.” Hawke can feel Varric warm along his side.

Hawke hunches down to reach Varric's ear. “Same city? I wouldn’t place them on the same fucking continent.”

Varric huffs a laugh, watching the brat wiggle her fingers into the cage and pet the bird gently. He turns his head, and Hawke finds himself staring at a missed patch of stubble high on Varric’s jaw. It’s so endearing Hawke feels like he’s been struck stupid. Over _stubble?_

Hawke wrenches his eyes away.

It’s not the first time he’s felt that way toward Varric, not by a long shot. But it’s– it’s getting harder to remember the reasons why it would be a bad idea. Because it would be a bad idea. Monumentally stupid. After years of being on the run or held responsible for some major calamity or another, Hawke finally has a normal, easy routine. He gets up, sees Varric and Astyth for breakfast, goes on odd jobs, bothers the two of them again later in the day, and settles in at home to wake up the next day and do it all over again. He doesn’t need anything else. But he also wants to throw Varric on the bathroom countertop and make him hold very still while he carefully shaves Varric’s face for him every morning. 

Finally they rip the brat’s attention away from the bird and have dinner, although she’s quieter than normal, eyes locked on the birdcage the entire time. 

“So are you attending the Council too, Ritts?” Hawke asks.

She shakes her head. “No, I’m going south next.”

“Oh, where to?”

Ritts grins. “The South.”

“Ha, so that’s how it is.” Varric puts a couple slices of chicken onto Astyth’s plate. “Anywhere interesting?”

“Perhaps,” she says slyly. 

Varric throws up his hands in defeat. He turns his attention to Astyth, where she’s barely touched her meal, too busy concentrating all of her attention on the raven. “Kid, you feeling okay?”

She looks from the bird to her plate of fowl, and then back to the bird again. “I’m full.”

Varric groans. “Damnit, Ritts. You broke my kid.” She laughs, and Varric shakes his head into his wine glass.

Hawke looks to the brat. Varric didn’t catch his slip of the tongue, but she certainly did. Astyth’s looking down at the tablecloth like it contains the secrets of the universe.

Sneaking another look at Varric, eyes glinting in the candlelight and loose with good wine and better company, Hawke knows exactly how she feels.

Hawke helps swaddle Varric in thick wool coats on the morning he’s set to depart. There’s a bit of a late cold snap, and while it’s not the bitter freezing you’d get in Fereldan, the damp cold in Kirkwall can still seep deep into your bones and leave your teeth chattering for days.

The ride is a bit too rough for a carriage, at least until Varric sweet talks the rest of the Free Marches into helping build an improved highway across the coast, so he, Bran, and their guard have to tough out the first leg of their journey on horseback. Hawke itches to just grab Varric and set him on top of his patient mare, but unlike Astyth, he’s not a fan of being airborne.

“You sure you don’t want me to accompany you?” Hawke asks, for the tenth time that morning, as soon as Varric uses the little staircase to get settled on the horse.

Varric slips off his glove and lays the back of his hand against Hawke’s head. “Are you feverish? Do you forget the last time you went? Maker no, I wouldn’t let you come even if I was bringing Astyth.” 

“Fine, I’ll stay in Kirkwall and make sure the brat doesn’t starve.” Varric’s fingers are chilly against Hawke’s skin, so he grabs them and rubs vigorously. “Don’t get robbed on the way there. Or trip. It’ll be very embarrassing if you die by horseback accident before The Game gets its hands on you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Varric says gently, hearing the concern in Hawke’s words under all the bullshit. Hawke’s stuck again by an impulse to kiss the palm of Varric’s hand, like a gallant knight. Instead he blows warm air on them. “Do you know where the kid is? We can’t wait much longer.”

Hawke shakes his head. They woke up early this morning for one last breakfast together before he departed, but she was supposed to see them off with Hawke. “Want me to tell her anything?”

“Nah.” Varric squeezes Hawke, then retrieves his newly warm hand to hide it in his gloves. “Just tell her to be good, and I’ll be back soon.”

Hawke waits until Varric’s no longer visible from the Keep before searching for the brat. He gets as far as the Main Hall before she’s running toward him. “Whoa, slow your roll.”

She stops, out of breath and upset. “Did I miss him?”

Hawke nods, but gets distracted by how she’s bunching up her tunic by her chest. “Astyth,” he says, dread building. “What’s that?”

She freezes. “Her mother was killed by an eagle, Mrs. Horne the cook said I could keep her as a thank you for inviting her son to lectures.”

“Her?” Maker, Varric’s bed is barely cold and Hawke's already lost control of his kid.

“Her name is Pearl.” The brat opens her hands, and a small chick lets out a little _peep._ “The cook said I could, and that my room is fine for a bird as long as I keep her warm and clean the cage myself.”

Hawke sighs, but sticks out his finger to let the chick peck at him. “Come on, we’ll need to consult the Keep’s poultryman for a cage. And the cook is right, if you commit to this bird, you’re its caretaker now. That means feeding _and_ cleaning.” He’s been terrified of overstepping his role here, meanwhile the fucking cook goes and saddles the child with a pet without warning. Hawke feels cheated. It’s not like Varric would say _no._ So far the brat’s only hobbies have been stealing, hate-reading classic literature, and giving them heart attacks from jumping off of tall objects. A chicken is a massive improvement.

She grins, ecstatic. “And training!”

With a wince, Hawke leads her back toward the kitchens. “A chicken isn’t a raven, Astyth, she, or he, won’t be able to do the things that Ritts’ raven can.”

“Even falconers have to start somewhere,” she responds, totally unconcerned.

Well, she’s got him there.

“Quit moving!” Astyth scolds. Hawke can tell she’s struggling not to accidentally clench her hand full of dried fruit.

Hawke shakes his finger at her. “I wouldn’t have to move if your aim was better.” She scowls at him and tosses a raisin as hard as she can. He flinches, but too slowly and it hits him in the eye. _“Ouch,_ brat.”

She crosses her arms smugly. “See? There’s nothing wrong with my aim.”

Hawke thinks about it, and graciously concedes her point. He settles back on the grass and obediently opens his mouth.

The brat hits a good streak, successfully tossing six raisins in his mouth before accidentally overshooting. It gets lost somewhere in his hair, but Hawke can’t make himself care. Varric should be arriving back from the Winter Palace soon, and he was bored to tears counting down the hours until his return like a lovestruck virgin maiden. And he’s only actually one out of the three.

Astyth’s current maths tutor is much more lenient than the last, and it only took a little bit of wheedling to abscond with the child for a lazy day of distractions in the gardens. The rest of her classmates, a mix of children from servants and nobles who care more about rubbing elbows with the Viscount’s ward than the insult of their children slumming it with the poor, stare at him with blatant jealousy. The brat herself was more difficult to convince. Apparently she _likes_ maths, which, while a fine and scholarly interest, needs to be balanced with a healthy dose of outdoor air. 

But all he had to do was say, “It’s a _beautiful_ day out, perhaps Pearl would enjoy it?” and she scrambled out from behind her desk to retrieve her chick. One day that card will stop being effective, but not any time soon. She pets it, softly and carefully like Ritts taught her. It’s still small, just edging out of chick territory into being sort of an awkward in-between age. According to Astyth’s new books about chicken rearing, it should start laying eggs in about four months.

The bird does cluck somewhat adorably, when it’s not shitting on the both of them. There’s a joke somewhere in there about a dwarf who loves heights falling in love with a bird that can’t fly.

A shadow passes over Hawke’s face, and he blinks up at one of Varric’s aides, the tall one that Varric always complains about.

“Messere, you wanted me to let you know when the Viscount returned,” he says. And then glances, quick, at Hawke’s coin purse.

Hawke laughs, good mood bubbling up inside him too fast to contain. He shakes the aide’s hand and palms him a couple copper. Hawke goes to beckon the brat, but she’s on her feet already, quickly clearing the ground and throwing their remaining food back into the basket. 

Astyth has an excited energy to her, and Hawke can’t blame her. The Keep may be the most boring building in all of Kirkwall, and it’s only more hollow and empty without its Viscount filling the halls with chatter and cheer. She also thinks it’s funny to sigh and dramatically claim that _Hawke_ should have left and Varric should have stayed any time he mildly inconveniences her. Hawke gamely goes along with the bit, and kindly doesn’t point out that she genuinely seems to miss her uncle.

There’s a bit of an awkward moment where they try to figure out who’s holding what, but in the end Hawke grabs the bags while the girl holds her beloved chicken in the safe cradle of her arms.

They manage to catch Varric before he enters his office.

He looks—

He looks tired. Every line of Varric’s body screams exhaustion. He looks good, he always looks good with his proud nose, clear eyes, and expensive jacket stretching tight around his shoulders. But Hawke falters all the same, especially now that he notices Bran looks just as twice-warmed-over.

Varric’s face lights up when he spots them, and Hawke smiles back, not wanting to seem concerned in front of the child. He clasps Hawke on the arm with a murmured greeting, and tries to hug Astyth, although he stops when the chick pecks at him.

Varric freezes, finally registering the bird, and laughs. “Anyone want to explain the chicken.”

“Ah, that is Pearl,” Hawke primly retorts. “Your ward’s new ward.”

“Yeah, sure.” Varric shrugs. “Why not. Life is weird enough already.”

The brat rolls her eyes in amusement and pokes Varric on the arm, almost shy. Little attention seeker.

Bran shifts behind his shoulder. “Viscount, we really should start soon.”

Hawke glances back and forth between the Seneschal and Varric, until the latter rubs his temples and addresses Astyth.

“Hey kid, I hate to do this, but some important stuff came up at the Council and we have to deal with it. I’ll come say hi later tonight, but I don’t know when that’ll be. I’m sorry,” he says, voice tinged with obvious regret.

She just nods her head, even shyer. “I understand.”

“Thank you,” he says. He reaches out to squeeze her shoulder, but the chicken starts clucking and pecking at his hand. “Ow! Ouch, okay, go and take your beast with you.”

“She’s not a beast,” she argues, but she heads back to her quarters anyways. With one last look back at them, she blushes and yells, “Welcome home!” before sprinting away.

Varric smiles at her retreating back, but it only lasts a second.

“So.” Hawke clears his throat. “The Winter Palace was just as much fun as last time?”

“Incredibly, it somehow got worse.” Varric gestures at his aide, who was apparently hovering behind Hawke this whole time. “Get the Guard Captain. Tell her it’s urgent business.” He looks apologetically at Hawke while ushering them all inside the office. “We should wait for her. I’m not going to want to do this twice.”

By the time Aveline arrives, Varric’s cracked the seal on one of his more expensive vintages of brandy and Bran’s laid across the couch, a cool wet towel draped over his eyes.

They say their requisite hellos, and Hawke tries not to vibrate out of his chair, chest tight with anxiety. “Not to be blunt, Varric, but what the fuck is going on?”

Varric, with a couple interjections from Bran, fills them in on what the fucking is going on.

After the report winds down, Varric goes to pour them all another round.

“That’s my cue,” Bran sighs. He stands, nodding to Varric. “I’ll get started with the council. We’re going to need to review the treasury if we’re getting sucked into another war.”

Aveline nods. “And security. I need to talk with my Lieutenants, but we’re going to need to switch up our routes, especially around Sundermount.”

“Oh goody,” Bran flatly intones. “The fun never ends.”

Aveline shifts to turn to Varric as soon as the Seneschal leaves, the door a quiet _snick_ as it closes. “Varric, it needs to be handled delicately, but we need to know if he’s approached anyone in the Alienage. Even if Kirkwall is not a target, you know this Solas. Or knew him, at least, and he doesn’t seem like a man who’d let that lie. You need to be careful in case _you_ end up being a target.”

Hawke tries and fails to unclench his jaw. “Hate to foster paranoia, dwarf, but she’s not wrong.”

“Don’t worry, Bran helpfully catastrophized the entire journey back. And is it paranoia if a god really is out to get you?” Varric leans back in his chair and cricks his neck. “You’re also right about it needing to be, ah, _delicate._ As far as I know, Daisy’s still in the city.”

Hawke nods, but Aveline frowns, worry etched in her brows. “Varric, do you think it is… wise, to approach her now?”

Hawke stiffens, but to his surprise Varric just shrugs with a sigh. 

“Honestly? I don’t know.” He swirls his cup. “Everyone’s told her she’s crazy for years, and now the Dread Wolf himself shows up to say that not only can he bring back the glory of the elves, her weird mirror can help make that a reality.” Varric laughs and raises his cup, wild glint in his eye. “To Daisy, the crazy elf was right all along!”

Hawke ignores him. “No, I can’t believe she’d join him.”

“Hawke, she went against her own clan for just a taste of her history. She thought it could mean a future for her people.” Aveline holds his gaze steady. “I care for the girl, you know I do. But if I were her, I’d be tempted.”

“But _despite_ all the shit she was given, not once did Merrill hurt a soul.” Hawke clenches the glass in his hand. “She wouldn’t destroy the world, not while people were still living in it.”

He ignores the look Aveline and Varric share over his head. Hawke distantly knows he’s being obstinate, but after the sheer dump of information this evening—and it is evening, well into the night now—he’s clenching hard and fast onto this point and not letting go.

“Regardless, we should know where she’s stashed the eluvian before we wake up with Qunari on our doorstep. Again.” With that, Aveline stands and places her glass upside down on Varric’s desk. She hesitates, but pats Hawke’s shoulder on the way out.

Hawke feels like he’s one long band, stretched tight. “Varric, she’s being preposterous.”

“You’re telling me! The coaster was right next to her,” Varric fussily cleans up Aveline’s discarded glassware and rubs at the liquid ring with a handkerchief.

“Varric,” Hawke says through clenched teeth.

“Please, Hawke, not today. Today has been a long, long day. Maker, to think I was almost looking forward to seeing the gang back together again.” Hawke opens his mouth to say something, but Varric starts giggling. “‘Course it turned out to be the worst trip of my life. And I’ve been to the Deep Roads, _twice._ First, I had to actually pay attention to Orlesian politics. Second, Qunari assassins. _Assassins!_ The one perk of fighting a qunari is that you can see him coming! And then, third, it turns out the Qunari were only there because my old camping buddy murdered _literal gods_ and shredded the Fade, I mean—”

Varric starts laughing outright, words unintelligible and shoulders shaking.

Alarmed, Hawke perches halfway out of his chair. “Varric, are you—”

Varric turns to him, eyes wet and tears streaming down his face, breathing choppy and fast.

With a soft cry, Hawke is on his feet before he registers the thought to stand. He crosses the desk and kneels before Varric, head coming up to Varric’s shoulder.

“Varric, it’s going to be alright—”

Varric makes a startled laughing noise, or maybe a sob. “Oh is it? We– we fixed a goddamn hole in the _sky,_ and then killed an unkillable man. We, you and I, walked through the Fade itself. Not a peek through the Veil, Hawke, we _fully_ walked into another world, and we had no fucking business both walking back out of it. How many times are we going to roll the dice before we stop hitting sevens?”

“I know—”

“It’s not just the Qunari invasion. At least if they win, we’ll only be off somewhere pulling plows with our brains leaking out our ears. If Solas succeeds, there won’t be any winners to the war, Hawke. We’ll just be _gone.”_

“I know.” Hawke leans up, grabbing at Varric until Varric’s draped over him in a hug. Hawke can feel his collar growing wet from Varric’s tears. “I know.”

“I’m not alone anymore. I have a kid. It’s not fair. I’m supposed to keep her safe from bad men in bushes and choking on fishbones. If the Veil drops, there’s no going back. Her whole future, gone.” Hawke can feel Varric’s heart thumping painfully fast against his own.

“Let me help,” he whispers. Varric lets out a shuddering exhale in response.

Hawke rocks them slightly, willing his own breathing to calm, and for his own mind not to plummet down the same well that Varric’s has. It’s not that Hawke doesn’t understand– Maker, his selfish, shiny fantasy of the three of them laughing and eating dinner as a family feels more perverse and beautiful than ever. 

But Varric’s also been his rock, been all of their rock. Even when the Chantry exploded and flames tore through the city, Varric looked to Hawke, face ashen with grief, and remained at his side. Varric will complain or groan about the smallest of pebbles in his boots, but on the worst days of his life, and Hawke’s had countless worst days by now, he could count on Varric to be there and to be leaned on. Hawke wishes he had prodded Varric more after Bartrand died, had talked things over. But he took the coward’s path, laughing at Varric’s gallows humor instead of sitting Varric down and forcing him to talk through the pain. 

Heart breaking, Hawke buries a small kiss in Varric’s hair. He smells a little unfamiliar, like pine needles. After another moment, he buries another one. He can feel Varric tightening his hand on the back of Hawke’s shirt.

He shifts, laying a kiss on Varric’s temple. He expects Varric to laugh, or to pull away. 

But he doesn’t. Varric just breathes out, nearly silent.

Hawke only pulls away far enough to drag his mouth carefully, softer than he can ever remember being, over Varric’s brow to the center of his forehead. Delicate agelines are beginning to form there. Hawke gives another quick press of his lips. It could barely be called a kiss.

The office is almost deafening in its silence—punctuated only by their uneven breaths.

Varric’s eyes are closed.

Hawke should tweak Varric’s nose, or give him a raspberry. Offer a little joke to make Varric laugh and cheer up. Instead, he kisses the damp corner of Varric’s eye.

He moves lower, just another chaste press of lips over Varric’s jaw. Hawke feels– like he’s not there, like he’s viewing himself from three feet away, and yet he can feel his heartbeat in the palm of his hand, and like there’s nothing outside of the little bubble that contains him, and Varric.

Shifting, Hawke hovers in front of Varric’s mouth where it’s parted slightly. Varric’s got stubble, more than his usual five o’clock shadow, dusting across his jaw. He still smells like pine. Hawke takes a breath, just a small inhale, and angles closer.

A warm hand closes over Hawke’s mouth, stopping him. Startled, heart stuck in his throat, Hawke snaps his eyes up to Varric’s. They’re no longer closed, but staring at him with intensity.

“No,” Varric whispers, close enough that his lips just brush the back of his hand. “This– that’s not how I want us to be.”

Hawke’s grateful that Varric’s covering half his face from being witnessed. He also hates it, skin now crawling wherever they’re touching. He– he’s a fool, an idiot. He doesn't think he can control his reaction, not if his life depends on it. Ice water flashes up his spine and settles in the core of his chest.

Not trusting his voice, Hawke swallows and nods. He wants to scream.

He licks the palm of Varric’s hand, knowing it’ll make him wince and pull away, and he’s proven right.

Hawke slaps the most mischievous look he can manage on his face. His cheeks feel hot, and he can only hope his darker complexion makes it look like a boyish blush rather than a hot burst of shame.

“Very well, Viscount Tethras.” Hawke has no idea why he’s going with this bit, but it seems to be working. Varric still looks uncomfortable, but he’s no longer looking at Hawke quite so fiercely. Hawke stands and delivers a quippy little bow. “If it pleases you, messere, I will allow you to rest.”

Varric huffs. “I’ll talk to you in the morning, Hawke.”

“If my liege wishes it!” Hawke singsongs, strolling out of the office with his back to Varric so he can hide his face again.

Hawke walks fast on his trip home, distracted. He stumbles twice, barely watching his feet. The conversation runs on loop in his mind, over and over and over—

After a couple hours in bed, struggling and failing to sleep over the cacophony of noise in his head, Hawke rips off his covers and goes to the study. It’s just so bloody quiet in the house. Hawke’s been crashing in the guest room of Varric’s apartment most of the nights while he’s been gone. Hawke wants to scream, to throw books at the wall until the heaving thuds wake the neighbors. Just something, _anything_ to make a little bit of noise in this tomb of a home.

Instead, he grabs the lip of the bannister and hand-walks until he’s descended from the second story. He does a couple minutes of hard pull ups until he drops down, muscles straining with exhaustion. He lights a candle, and drafts letters to friends to give his mind a different bone to pick at.

He finds a half-started correspondence with Carver, and with a start realizes he left off in the middle of writing about Astyth.

_—and I would have thought she’d be too smart for this, but I think the brat has a serious case of hero worship for you, despite your choice in profession! She begs me for stories about you & all your Warden glory, and then scowls fiercely after as if I wasted her time. _

_I think the first time she lays eyes on you, she’ll either ask for an autograph or stab you. Don’t worry, though. She’s laughably terrible at stabbing things, despite her nimble fingers. Decent shot with the bow, though, maybe if you come across any more of those Elf-Flight Arrows you mentioned—_

Hawke puts the letter down, careful not to crumple it while he debates whether or not to let the candle flame burn it into ash.

Varric was right, he’s _not_ alone anymore. He’s got a child now. A bright, curious, sensitive, deeply annoying child he’s raising. On his own, without Hawke. 

Hawke curses and paces the room. What an _idiot._ She’s not even Varric’s daughter, why did Hawke think he had any right to start acting like her father? Ah, but that’s melodramatic, isn’t it. Varric is doing the best he can in a difficult situation, no one expects him to learn to do it seamlessly overnight. It’s obvious he cares for the child. It’s just that his big, infuriatingly warm heart made Hawke feel like he was a part of their family, rather than accept the truth that he’s just her uncle’s lonely drinking buddy who sometimes babysits. And as unfulfilling as that dynamic is, one would have to rip it from Hawke’s cold, dead hands.

Returning to the desk, Hawke picks up the letter and finishes it. It’s not the kid’s fault Hawke crossed a line tonight (or yesterday, murky pre-dawn light has already started to spill in through the windows). She really is damn good at the bow, and enspelled arrows are hard to come by in Kirkwall. She’s only had a few lessons so far, but she holds up against the new Guard recruits. She drags her feet running drills with daggers and swords, but it’ll be good for her to get used to variation. Otherwise she’ll be stuck with one weapon like Varric.

He just— he just needs to reset boundaries. Before it gets confusing again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :(


	7. Chapter 7

Varric watches Hawke saunter out of his office, and spends a couple minutes taking deep, even breaths. He can feel his heart thudding uncomfortably in his chest, and forces himself to calm down before he does something ridiculous, like cry. Or throw up.

It’s not like it’s the first time Hawke’s done this, steal a glance at his lips like he’s weighing the pros and cons. It’s just in the decade plus they’ve known each other, the needle always fell toward the con. It’s also not the first time Hawke’s had a cheeky night or two with a friend and stayed fast-friends after. But there’s a reason Varric never pushed, never raised an eyebrow and went, _“Why not?_ " to Hawke. Not now, not even in the first few years of knowing each other. Even then, Varric knew there was something special about Hawke, about the two of them together.

Hawke might laugh at him for saying so, the Inquisitor _certainly_ would, but if Andraste was real and guiding them through fate and destiny (and he has a horrible sneaking suspicion she is), he thinks that’s how Hawke was put in his path. Varric keeps thinking, _this is it, nothing could get more batshit crazy than this,_ and then he looks to his left and Hawke’s grinning at him like something downright impossible didn’t just happen. 

Varric sort of imagined them being bachelors together. Just going old and gray, playing cards and cracking up over old stories. Realistically, luck’s going to run out and they’ll die well before old age, or Hawke will stop flitting around and settle into a family of his own. But still, it’s a nice image.

But a friendly pityfuck? Even if Varric was game enough to try, he’d probably break down crying in the middle and Hawke will have to awkwardly let go of his dick to ask him if he’s alright and then Varric won’t be able to look him in the eye ever again.

No, nope. 

Not happening. 

He collects himself, and goes to Astyth’s room to tuck her in and let her babble at him stream-of-consciousness about every little thing he’s missed the past couple weeks.

The next morning, Varric wakes and grabs a quick breakfast with the little thief before she runs off to her class. How fickle, the youth. Less than twenty-four hours back in Kirkwall and she’s already bored of him.

He drags his feet to his office, and tries to throw himself into work, ignoring the anxiety swimming in his gut.

Varric was wrong to worry; about midmorning, Hawke slams his door open like a dick and immediately launches into a tirade about something or another.

The hot coal in Varric’s chest fades away, grateful beyond measure that there’s no lingering uncomfortableness from last night’s conversation. They’re as they always are. He gossips shamelessly with Hawke, also pushing aside any heavier talk of the Inquisition or Solas.

Maker’s Breath, he’s beautiful. Hawke got a trim recently, shaved the side of his head that had been getting shaggy. Hawke’s too far away to tell what he smells like today, but Varric’s going to bet it’s fennel. His hair oil never matches scent, usually too mild to notice unless you practically bury your nose in it. But it makes Hawke’s hair soft and wavy when it’s not pulled back.

Traitorously, a part of Varric wishes he could sense just a trace of rejection from Hawke. Just a hint of recognition that Hawke might have been disappointed by being turned down, turned down by Varric specifically. Hawke only seems a bit tired, but who isn’t these days.

After a couple minutes Hawke pulls out a loaf of bread from his pack and tosses it to Varric. “Here you go, dwarf. Honestly, you’re skin and bones.” He makes a face. “Ouch. We can’t escape from becoming our parents, can we.”

“Not unless the Maker answers our prayers.” Varric chooses not to mention he’s not hungry and instead accepts the gift. The crust is good and crunchy, and knocks on it with his knuckles. “Mm, good and hollow, too.”

“Like my skull? Ha ha.”

Varric tamps down a grin. “You said it, not me.” 

The silence stretches, and Varric grasps at a thread. He recognizes the loaf to be the work of Hagron the baker and decides to go for the inside joke.

“The ladies will get jealous if you keep sneaking out at sunrise to be first in line,” Varric teases.

Hawke makes a quick, harsh face. “Sometimes a baguette is just a fucking baguette,” he snaps back.

Varric startles, wrongfooted. “No I– I know.” It’s not like he actually thinks Hawke was at a brothel last night, not really. Not that he _wouldn’t_ ever go— Maker’s Breath. They’ve both been cracking that joke ever since Varric caught the tail end of a brutal scolding from Leandra, tearing into the Hawke brothers for sneaking out for an afternoon at the Rose. She banned any of Hagron’s goods from ever crossing the threshold of their door, innocent excuses be damned. Gamlen was passive-aggressive for a week about it. For a couple months, Hawke would wink and suggestively ask if anyone got ‘a slice of Hagron’ whenever someone took a bed partner for an evening.

Hawke rolls his eyes, tension leaving him as quick as it arrived. “See if I feed you ever again.”

Varric laughs awkwardly, goes for the easy joke. “But what if I need my grapes peeled?”

It works—Hawke rolls his eyes again, but good-naturedly.

“Listen, Varric.” Hawke picks at an invisible piece of lint on his robes. “I’m going to take off. Someone needs to chat with Merrill, and after last night, I think it ought to be me.”

Varric nods slowly. “Alright, if you’re okay with it.”

“I am.” Another brief silence falls in the room. “Dinner?”

Varric nods, not trusting himself to speak right away. Taking what he hopes is an imperceptible calming breath, Varric tries to give Hawke his most benign smile. “That would be great.”

And then Hawke leaves.

He feels— bad. Not the most eloquent of feelings, but he just feels hollow and empty. But he holds tight to the knowledge that Hawke’s his friend, and powers through the day. He couldn’t even tell if his fennel pick was true.

A courier arrives later that afternoon, with an order Varric placed that first day of the Exalted Council. Face burning, Varric signs for it and winces at the price tag. Feeling like an idiot, Varric buries the items in the back of his office armoire and decides to deal with it when things between himself and Hawke are fully back to normal.

__

Hawke cuts quickly across the city to get to the “Alienage,” insomuch as it’s still called. The city is slow to let go of its notions, especially the most heinous ones, but the rebuilding of districts came with the mandate to feather open the edges of where the Alienage used to be. 

Merrill’s done good work here. The elves were uneasy with Merrill at first, not wanting a blood mage in their midst to draw attention from the remaining Templars stomping around. Cullen may have eventually helped the coup to replace Meredith and turn a blind eye to the remaining mages being spirited out of the city, but some things are harder to ignore. Until of course she dug her hand into the ground, using her magic to sense survivors hidden down under the rubble. She proved more powerful and controlled than any in carefully removing debris. It had also taken hard, serious work for Merrill to save the sole tree from the fires, but now it’s growing tall and healthy, and the square has become a secondary marketplace and community meeting space.

He’s proud of her, and happy that she never seems to be alone when he visits, surrounded by neighbors and elves alike. She deserves it.

He finds Merrill in the middle of burning garbage down a side street, a gaggle of children watching her with the intense interest only little kids feel when watching things being deliberately set on fire.

Hawke approaches her when she’s done, and she cries out in delight when she catches sight of him.

“Hawke, it’s you! It’s been weeks!” She grins at him and dusts soot off her hands. “The sewer backed up, so it’s either burning waste or dumping it on Hightown’s doorstep.”

Hawke laughs. “Can I help? Either option.”

“Oh no, lethallin, don’t worry yourself. I must look like a fright, though.”

“Never.” He drags Merrill into a hug, tucking her under his chin. He’s probably getting ash all over his robes, and she doesn’t exactly smell like roses at present. But he squeezes her tighter.

She pulls away after a moment, looking at him with concerned eyes. “Hawke, what’s the matter?”

Hawke feels fragile, suddenly, like if she flicked him he’d crumble into a million pieces. He gives her a hollow smile. “We need to talk.”

By the time he finishes filling her in, she's made them tea and it’s gone cold, untouched on her modest but well-made kitchen table.

Merrill curses softly. “Suppose I meet him and say, ‘By the Dread Wolf! It’s you!’ but of course that _is_ him. It would be very, very embarrassing. Do you know what he’s like?”

“According to Varric, apparently he enjoyed painting murals, hated tea, and loved spirits. There was a rumor among the group he even bedded some, but unclear if it’s just spiteful gossip or the truth. He was wearing the skeleton of a wolf’s jaw around his neck when I met him, which in retrospect is a little tacky.” Hawke rubs his eyes. “I don’t know. He didn't really stand out to me. He just seemed… kind. Sad.”

She nods thoughtfully. “Hawke… what is it you want me to say right now?” She looks small, delicate behind the table. Paradoxically, she also seems sturdy and real, like she’s the only thing fully present in the room.

His heart sinks. “I don’t know,” he says, truthfully. 

“I’ve heard whisperings, we all have. I thought it was just a figurehead, or a group of people making a name for themselves. Like the Jennies, or the Herald— Inquisitor, sorry.” She sips some of her tea. “If you’re here to ask me for the names of those who left to join him, I’m sorry Hawke. I cannot do that. They’re gone now, and I cannot let their good families be targeted.”

Hawke nods, throat thick. He takes a sip himself to busy his hands. “Merrill, I understand, I do. But this Solas, this Fen’Harel, he means to destroy the world. For everyone.”

She sighs, and worries at the halla ring on her thumb. “Yes, that’s not the best of news.” She laughs at the look on his face. “What? It’s not.” Merrill sobers, eyes glancing around her house. “But I have my own reasons for not joining him. I tried to save all of The People, and instead I was cast from my clan and had to watch my mentor die. I’m not arrogant or ambitious enough to try it again, at least not at the moment.”

“And in the years to come?”

“Oh Hawke, you know I adore you, and all our years together. But this life, my neighbors— I was meant to be helping them. They might not be Dalish, but they _are_ my family now. I wish I could promise I’d join in the fight against him, I do, I really do. But right now my priority are these people, this little corner of the world. I _will_ protect them. Against humans, or against the Dread Wolf himself.”

He nods, wiping at his eyes, Maker knows why they’re tearing up.

She hesitates, then places her small hand on top of his. “Hawke, are you alright? This seems to be hitting you rather hard."

He laughs wetly. “Rather.”

“You’re not exactly a very handsome crier, you know,” she says kindly, patting him again on the hand. For someone who can be so gentle, every one of her fingers is covered in coarse calluses. “Cheer up, or your eyes will be puffy all day.”

“I’m just.” He shrugs, failing at the words. “I’m lonely. I’m just very lonely.”

“I thought you were spending more time with Varric and his girl?” Hawke feels his mouth twist at her words, and her face falls. “Oh Hawke, you have it bad, don’t you.”

Hawke gives her hand a squeeze and changes the subject, desperate to stop feeling so damn brittle. “Let’s talk about happier subjects, namely, how you were right.”

“Right how? Oh! The eluvian. Yes, I was quite right, wasn’t I?” She perks up. “Tell Varric not to wring his hands, I locked it back in a cave in Sundermount ages ago. It’s warded to alert me to any attempted tampering, either side, and I can make him a signal as well. It’s honestly safer up there in the mountains, at least until its sister mirror is found or fixed.”

Hawke finally drinks the rest of his tea, and fills the rest of the afternoon with small gossips, asking after the various members of Merrill’s new clan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can i get an F


	8. Chapter 8

Varric blearily wakes up to a soft _thud,_ eyes catching first on the thin, watery pre-dawn light seeping in from under his curtains. Offhand, he wonders what it would be like to dream. When he was a kid he was obsessed with the idea that you lie down, think up batshit stories, and then wake up refreshed after. He could shake with envy. It really _was_ magic. But if dreams were anything like how the Fade actually is— yeah, pass.

There’s another clattering noise and muffled cursing from the reception area of his apartment. He recognizes the cadence of his intruder's speech and gets up with a huff, grabbing his royale sea silk robe from where he tossed it on his arm chair ages ago and slips it on.

He pauses, lingering at the threshold of his door, and pinches the fabric where it's gathered on his arm. It’s a silly, utterly indulgent thing to own. Hawke gave it to him for his birthday. It’s tailored perfectly for a dwarf of his size, but the color clashes terribly with his skin tone and it’s too ridiculous to actually _wear_ where a servant could actually see him. It’s like all Hawke gifts: awful. When he got it, Varric laughed long and hard and promised to set it on fire, and wore it for the rest of the night.

Now, it only makes him feel hollow. 

Varric opens his bedroom door slowly. “Stop and hit the floor, or I’ll put a bolt between your eyes, you damn bandits!”

“No!” Astyth screams, although it sounds more like a cat yowling. “You’re supposed to be asleep!” She runs over and tries to tug him back in his bedroom. Over her shoulder he sees Mrs. Horne give him a sheepish smile and continue laying dishes on his table.

“Oh ho, and who says I’m not still asleep? Hey– quit poking so hard or I’ll wake up,” he complains, but he lets the little thief bully him back inside his room. “So why the honor of your company this early, _early_ morning.”

“You’ll see,” she hums. Ack, he’s gone soft. Varric rolls his eyes so she doesn’t realize what a pushover he is nowadays, but that boat’s probably sailed.

They sit in silence for a bit. With a pang, Varric remembers how early it is and mournfully considers dozing off for just a couple more minutes of sleep.

“Do you think he’s coming today?” Astyth asks, mock casual.

“Ah.” Varric rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t know, kid. He’s been pretty busy.” Maker, it’s too early for this. If his brain was up and running he’d be able to distract her with a joke. “So which lessons do you have today?”

He lets the jabbering speech wash over him. He already knows she’s got calligraphy, archery, and beginner’s horseback lessons today. Made him sweat to think of the kid on top of a horse, but all of Varric’s advisors hounded him that it was an essential skill for a young ward to learn, and found the world’s most agreeable, patient, squat pony to start off her training. Bran could finally cross that off his checklist, although riding was one of the few things that Varric and Astyth could see eye to eye on… horses were fine for humans, but a dwarf had no business on one.

Varric lets his eye wander his room, trying to imagine how a real intruder would see it. Overflowing desk, a couple tapestries. More throw pillows than a single adult should own without looking insane. Faded ink stains on the stone floor. Jackets haphazardly thrown on an armchair in the corner. Some jewelry, nothing to break the bank. Some more valuable scrolls and tinkered experiments, if they were able to move the false panel behind his dresser. If he was a burglar, he’d be furious if he went to all the trouble breaking into the Viscount’s personal quarters and, instead of rubies and sapphires, he only found embroidered jackets in the chest.

But when _Varric_ looks—

He sees hiding away all his _good_ jewelry and family heirlooms into hollowed out bricks, in an insured Orlesian bank, or hidden in caches around the city _months_ ago to keep out of a certain little thief’s reach. He sees one of Astyth’s copying exercises tucked away on the corner of Varric’s desk, not because it was the best lettering she’s done, but because it was the first thing she was proud enough to share with him.

The day he spilled the inkwell, first a clumsy accident, and then as soon as he finished mopping it up, the kid barrelled into his room to complain about blisters from sword drills, and immediately knocked into it again and spilled over the same two tiles. He sees– he sees Hawke following the commotion, nosy as ever, and laughing hard at the looks on their faces.

He sees Hawke casual rifling through his clothes, absentmindedly going “these breeches look good on you,” or “roll down your sleeves, Varric, you’re driving all the maidens to distraction,” or every once in awhile, “this shirt is too big for you, I’m stealing it.” And Varric would complain and joke to keep himself from blushing, or from staring too long or too directly when Hawke would fish for compliments wearing Varric’s stolen clothes.

But Hawke had come back from Merrill’s with a tight face and said that the eluvian was safe, but that those who thought their world had already ended wouldn’t fear an apocalypse from yet another god sworn to protect them. Until that changed, Solas would never lack for recruits.

Varric doesn’t know what Daisy and Hawke had talked about, but it was like a switch was flipped. He was still charming, funny, devastatingly beautiful and off-limits as always, but Varric had gotten spoiled. A little over half a year with Hawke’s focus attention, and Varric had assumed it was a constant. 

Not that he’s no longer Varric’s closest friend anymore, of course he still is. But it’s been months now, and Varric’s gone from seeing Hawke every day to once or twice a week. And there’s a distance, like when they speak, Hawke’s got one eye on the door, waiting to burst outside and fight whatever evil is waiting. 

Varric told Hawke one morning that he didn’t need to force himself to come to breakfast anymore.

“If– if you’re sure,” Hawke responded, eyes wide. 

Varric swallowed every needy word clamoring to be said and gave Hawke a little love tap with his fist. “Yeah, Hawke. All I wanted was to create some structure for the kid, you know, family meal kind of thing. You don’t need to come if you’ve got other stuff.”

Hawke thanked him, face neutral and calm enough. Varric desperately hoped he looked that casual himself. But in the end, Hawke spent most mornings running errands for Daisy, tagging along one of the Guard rotations, or sleeping in after a night with the Jennies. When Varric did see him, Hawke would regale Astyth with stories until Varric scolded her for being too distracted to finish breakfast.

Selfishly, Varric cradles a little ball of sour and bitter grit in his chest, nursing it to form the smallest, oiliest of pearls. Why _couldn’t_ playing house with Varric and Astyth be enough? Was Hawke really that arrogant to believe he had to save the whole world on his own?

But the bitterness turns inwards, invariably. Varric adores Hawke for his righteousness, his inability not to say _fuck you_ to people who deserve it, and to step in front of those who deserve protection instead. How could he blame him for being who he always was? Hawke’s world has always been bigger than Varric, just as Varric’s life has always been bigger than Hawke (even if he’s always been the needier of the two of them). He just— it was nice, living in the bubble. The two of them against the world.

He hates himself, cruelly, punishingly, for the conversation after he returned from the Council. If Varric had just _kept his fucking shit together_ instead of freaking Hawke out with his doom and gloom, maybe Hawke would have stuck around. For longer, at least. Instead he wound Hawke up like a spring, and launched him out into the world, away from Varric.

A soft knock at the door interrupts Varric’s melancholia and the kid’s chatter.

“Viscount, serah?” Mrs. Horne pokes her head in. “It’s ready!”

Astyth stands, so excited it’s like she’ll vibrate out of her tiny little body. She drags Varric into the room and presents him with—

“A fried egg?” he asks. There’s other food as well, the standard spread. But right at the head of the table sits a proud, regal egg with garnish parsley on the finest of china plates. Varric’s eyes widen. “Kid, is that what I think it is? _The_ fried egg?”

She just hollers and claps in excitement. 

Mrs. Horne gamely pats her on the head. “Our Miss Pearl’s first bounty. The little one brought me the egg this morning.”

“Well it looks _delicious,_ thank you Mrs. Horne.” 

She blushes and gives him a small curtsy, which he tries not to feel uncomfortable about. “Matilda, please.” The cook hesitates. “And truly, it’s the least I could do. My boy could burn a pot of water, no matter how hard I taught him, but with all these new lessons, he thinks he could have a future as a scholar.”

 _Definitely_ embarrassed now, Varric makes a noncommittal noise. Then he glances at the table and his heart sinks.

“Oh,” he says, “you’ve set the table for three.”

The cook darts her eyes between the table and Varric. “Is Serah Hawke not joining?”

She sounds surprised when she says it, although Varric rarely has them set the table for three anymore. He sneaks a look at Astyth, who’s very much Not Looking back at him. Ah.

“I sent him a letter,” the little thief says, slipping into her seat. “I told him it was going to be any day now.” 

Awkwardly, Varric imploring looks at the cook. “Would you like to join us, Mrs. H– sorry, Matilda? At least for awhile?” 

She smiles, but he can tell she’s uneasy. She’s a good woman, kind enough to Astyth that he forgives her for dumping a pet bird on him, but he can read her hesitance to step in the middle of the inevitable crashing disappointment when Hawke fails to show up.

He releases the cook back to the kitchen with a wave, much to her obvious relief, and tucks into breakfast.

An hour and a half later, after picking at the rest of the morning sausage and porridge, the kid quietly allows Varric to cut the egg in half for the two of them to share.

It’s cold and rubbery on Varric’s tongue, but he smiles and compliments Astyth’s in increasingly silly ways until she finally cracks a smile. He makes her promise to bring the next egg to breakfast tomorrow as well.

After the kid’s off to her lessons, Varric sends a courier to Hawke to _politely invite him to tomorrow’s breakfast_ because if he has to see his kid nearly in tears over a fucking egg _again,_ he doesn’t care how much he adores Hawke’s principles, he’s going to strangle the man himself. He gives the courier an extra silver and tells him not to return until he gets Hawke’s verbal approval.

By the time the courier gets back with a thumbs up, it’s well into the afternoon. Varric considers telling Astyth that Hawke will be there tomorrow, but she’s in high spirits when he checks in on her. Apparently all her time grappling up walls gave her an arm strength advantage over the other kids and recruits her age, and she smoked them at archery practice. 

Truthfully, Varric tries so hard not to be smug in public at his kid’s _obvious_ superiority, he sort of forgets about the Hawke thing until nightfall. At that point there’s no sense riling her back up again. 

Varric lays in bed and indulgently imagines a scenario in which Hawke does _not_ show up tomorrow. Furious, Varric tracks him down, but instead of saving the world or orphans or puppies in burlap sacks, Hawke’s passed out, piss drunk in front of The Hanged Man. He slurs inaudibly when Varric shows up, or maybe he’s only slightly drunk, glassy eyed, with fucked-out bed partners on both arms. He laughs, unkindly, and whispers to his companions how hung up Varric is on him. Varric rips him a new one, for ignoring the kid, for dismissing Varric. And Hawke only looks slightly cowed, pointing out that he never agreed to this life, Varric didn’t even really have a choice, so why did he expect Hawke—

Eyes prickling, Varric flips over in bed and lets that version of Hawke float into the ether. 

It’s a horrid fantasy with no purpose other than letting Varric fester in self pity, but it’s less painful than his other fantasy. One where Hawke shows up early, with candles and flowers and a gaudy, terrible gift, and begs to elope. 

Neither happens. In reality, Hawke shows up on time, a little tired looking, but there. He smells faintly of mint when he clasps Varric on the shoulder and enters his quarters.

Hawke rubs his hands together, excited. “Varric, as lovely as it is to see you, I was promised fresh eggs straight from the source!” He scans the room. “I can’t believe I missed it.” There’s a thread of sorrow in his voice.

Varric’s struck for a moment how normal Hawke looks. “Actually, we’re having chicken pot pie.” Hawke’s got new braces on his forearms, and boots he doesn’t recognize. Hawke lowers himself into the seat at the head of the table, the dick. He knows Varric likes to hold court from there, and he’s giving Varric a tiny smirk like he can see the vein on Varric’s head comically sticking out.

“So resentful, just because Miss Pearl likes me more than you.” Hawke wags his finger at Varric. “Maybe if you stop threatening the poor bird, she’ll stop pecking you.”

Varric snorts. Doubtful. The bird fucking hates him, and the feeling is mutual.

Silence drops, heavy over the room. Varric tries to search for an anecdote, a story, _something_ , but the only thoughts running through his mind are _I miss you where have you been don’t you miss me too why won’t you stay I need you_ and so on. After months, Varric would have thought that his feelings for Hawke would have petered out. Instead, they seem to be concentrating. Like he always felt like this, but it was spread out over their many days together. Now, he has a week’s worth of longing packed into one sorry little breakfast.

“So,” Hawke says, putting Varric out of his misery. “Where is the brat?”

“Let me just get her,” he says, trying not to sound too relieved. It’s barely after the morning bell, she’s been way later than this before, but Varric needs a buffer asap.

He knocks on her quarters. “Kid?” he calls. No response, so he tests the handle. Still locked. He knocks a bit harder. “Hey kid, wake up! You’ve got a guest.”

There’s still no response. Varric shuffles kind of awkwardly. Just his luck, the little thief picks this morning to sleep in. 

But it’s either wake her up through the door, or go back and talk to Hawke, alone, after practically forcing him to be here this morning.

Varric pounds on the door, loud enough to wake the whole wing.

After a moment, he notices the even approach of Hawke down the hallway. He can barely hear Hawke’s footsteps on the cold stone, likely a perk of the new boots. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, of course,” Varric says, passing Hawke and going back to his room. He’s got the backup key to the kid’s quarters somewhere. Something low in his gut like dread starts to swirl. “Kid just slept in, that’s all.” Varric ignores the tightness in his throat.

Keys retrieved, Varric goes back to the kid’s quarters, clutching them tight enough to turn his knuckles white. Hawke trails behind him, seemingly calm save for the small frown on his face.

He turns the keys and tries to open the door, but it’s stopped by the inner bolt. Kid’s definitely still in there. “Astyth? Can you hear me?” he yells through the crack in the door.

“Let me,” Hawke says, startling Varric. Varric nods, dumbly, as Hawke casts a quick spell sliding the bolt open. Any other morning he’d crack a joke about Hawke making him carry the team picking locks all these years, but today he just pushes past.

The main reception area seems fine, normal. A bit of a mess, but as much as kids are. Pearls old coop sits dejected in the corner. She had wanted to keep the bird with her, but Varric put his foot down. Not nearly enough airflow in the quarters to house an adult chicken.

Varric beelines for her room. “Kid? I’m coming in.” 

Dread crystalizes in his stomach, forming sharp, cold panic. 

Her room’s empty, bed made.

“Varric,” Hawke says, soft but insistent. Varric wonders how many times he had to say that. “There’s a note.”

> _Making a delivery but I’ll be back. Don’t be mad. Feed Pearl if I take too long._ _  
> __Sincerely, A_

“Go,” Varric grits out.

Hawke sucks air in through his teeth, face draining of any color. “Varric—”

“Go, please,” he says, pleading now. “If you leave now, you might be able to get back to your house before she does.” There’s only one place she’d ‘make a delivery.’ Damnit, he should have told her about Hawke last night.

Hawke blinks, and seems to register Varric’s words a moment later. He settles himself and gives Varric a small nod. “We should double check first, just in case.”

A couple minutes later, they stand shoulder to shoulder by Miss Pearl’s coop, next to the other chickens in the Keep but fenced slightly off and painted a bright, cheery yellow.

The poultryman scratches his nose and confirms that the kid swung by earlier in the morning to retrieve Pearl’s fresh egg before skipping off.

“Impatient brat,” Hawke sighs. He squeezes Varric’s arm. “I’ll bring her back.”

Seven hours later, Hawke finally returns to Keep, leaving a couple guardsmen standing watch at his house in case she returns. Which is doubtful, seeing as the Guard is already crawling through the city and finding fucking nothing.

The kid is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the rarer companion to the horse girl: the bird girl


	9. Chapter 9

“Hawke, I need your eye on something,” Aveline says, a pinch to her face.

He nods and finishes scarfing down the last of his meal. It’s abysmal, a grey-brown thin stew—with what he _hopes_ is a carrot floating around—that points to a Fereldan manning the night kitchen. But it’s also not like Hawke’s doing any good eating in the barracks with the off-duty crew. There’s no leads, no ransom note. As far as any of them can tell, Astyth left the Keep this morning and just vanished off the face of the world.

Late in the afternoon he had stopped by Merrill’s, but she sadly shook her head. They can’t rule out Solas’ interference, but there wasn’t any evidence that he intends to harm the Viscount’s heir. Despite their worry after the Exalted Council, war hasn’t come to Kirkwall, at least not yet. For all they know, it wasn’t even a political attack. It could have been a crime of opportunity. A lone child, wandering the back alleys of Kirkwall with the sun barely peeking over the horizon—

Hawke drops his bowl heavily on the table, trying not to slam it down like he wants. “Lead on.”

He had _told_ the brat, hadn’t he? Or had he not? He remembers teasing her when he caught her sneaking into that shop, the one whatshisname runs. Told her to be smarter when cutting through alleys. From what he can recollect, that was— Maker, that was more than half a year ago. But he thought he would have had more _time_ to teach her how to move not just unnoticed, but _safely_ through the city. Hawke chews on some fennel seed so as to not grind his teeth needlessly.

Andraste watch over him, he’s such a fucking bastard. Was running off to lick his wounds these past couple months really worth it? Yes, it hurt when Varric gently but firmly closed the door on them. Not just as a romantic partner, but a partner when it came to Astyth too. He wasn’t sure what hurt more; the hot humiliation of Varric’s cool hand against his lips, or the jagged, piercing pain of being cut loose from their daily morning routines. He had sworn to himself that hiding from Varric wouldn’t cost him the brat, but obviously it had. He felt— _feels_ —protective over her, in a different way than he does toward his other friends. It reminds him of the first time Mother had shown him the twins—small, sort of awkward looking, and entirely too fragile. 

Hawke wasn’t even doing anything important yesterday. He had woken up to the sun cutting harshly against his eyes, and laid in bed feeling sorry for himself for an extra hour. There was no excuse. 

He slows automatically when he realizes Aveline’s leading him to Varric’s office.

“Have you—”

“No, no news yet. The Carta still claim no interference.” Aveline hesitates. Hawke’s struck for a moment looking at her. She’s transposed, suddenly, to the woman he met a decade and a half ago. Same posture, same headstrong attitude. But her laugh-lines are always present now, even when she looks to him with somber eyes and a downturned mouth. “That’s part of it. He needs to rest.”

Hawke gives her a small smile for want of a better thing to do. “Alright. I’ll see what I can do.”

He knocks, and gently walks into the office without waiting for permission. Varric looks up at him from behind his desk, blinking in surprise upon seeing it’s him. Makes sense, this has likely been the first time Hawke’s entered the room without throwing the door open dramatically first.

Hawke preemptively shakes his head before Varric can ask. “Messere, it’s time for bed.”

“Not the time, Hawke,” he snaps, going back to scribbling on his parchment. Hawke peeks at it as he walks over, startled to realize it has nothing to do with Astyth, just budgets and expense reports.

“Varric, your aides could draft these. You—”

“I need to do something productive, and since the books are apparently a fucking mess _still,_ I’ve got to fix them!” He’s nearly yelling by the end of it, out of breath and clutching his quill tight enough it’s straining not to snap in half. Not surprisingly, Hawke had already noticed that Varric’s aides have been hiding from him all day. 

Hawke plucks it from Varric’s hand without resistance. “Are you done?” Hawke asks, firm but not unkind.

Varric slumps. “Yes.” His voice is impossibly small, just like that early fake version of Astyth.

“Then let’s go.” Hawke wraps an arm around Varric and gently leads him from the office. He almost drops his arm but, fuck it, they’ve been friends much longer than Hawke’s little mistake. If he wants to hold onto Varric tight as a vice, he can.

So he does. 

He bullies Varric through his nightly routine and herds him to bed. Hawke takes a moment to fill a pitcher of water for him, and when he’s back, Varric’s in his sleep linens and staring at the robe Hawke bought him years back. Hawke tries not to wince. He had spun some bullshit reasoning for it, but truthfully he couldn’t stop running his fingers over the silky fabric at the store, and his mouth went dry at the image of Varric’s chest hair just spilling over the low cut style.

Varric puts a hand on Hawke to stop him from fussily moving around the room and plumping pillows. “Thank you.”

Hawke’s eyes burn and he immediately has to swallow down a lump in his throat. “Please,” he starts. He clicks his jaw shut and swallows, but he’s not sure if he was going to beg Varric to stop or say it again.

Varric clears his throat. “Are you going back to the house?”

“No.” He shakes his head, feet on firmer ground now. “I’m going to stick around here for a bit.”

Desperately, Hawke wants to bundle Varric up in another blanket and push him into the bed, laying on top of him to confirm his presence throughout the night.

Instead, he gives Varric one last squeeze on the arm. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Varric.”

Hawke leaves the room and goes into the main reception area, blowing out the lamps one by one until he needs to boost his vision with wisps of magic. He hears the squeak and groan of Varric settling into bed, and a moment later the light spilling under the door goes dark. Hawke blinks back tears. Not even a full day of her missing and he feels shattered. Traitorously, his mind goes to finding Mother too late, and he forces himself to breathe evenly over the rapid beating of his heart. 

There’s nothing he can do now but wait, and so he waits.

__  
  


Varric stares at his ceiling. He knows Hawke was fetched to drag him to bed, but he can’t make himself succumb to sleep. He keeps thinking about dreams. If he were Fade-connected, his sleep would be plagued by nightmares, or, if Maker was smiling on him, his subconscious would unlock the secret riddle pointing to his kid’s mysterious location.

Intead, as soon as he closes his eyes, he’ll open them and it’ll be morning. An entire night, gone in an instant. Varric knows how bleak it is to recover children after they’ve been taken. In fact, it was part of the selling point to taking a ward in the first place, that you never knew who’d grow up to succeed you. _Oh, Viscount, really you have no idea how fragile and fickle kids can be. There’s a reason they say an heir and a spare._

Varric rolls over. It’s been at least two hours since Hawke’s left. Desperately, he wishes he had asked Hawke to stay, at least brush his fingers through his hair until the buzzing settled enough to sleep. Maybe Hawke could whisper little jokes to him, the kind of jokes that make you smile and feel furious when all you want is to sob and be pitiful. He thinks that if Hawke told him that he could close his eyes, and the next he opened them his kid would be back, maybe he would believe him.

But he knows that’s not the case. She’s gone, slipped out—

Varric sits straight up in bed. “I’m an idiot,” he mutters. 

He throws back his covers, quickly lighting a candle and throwing on breeches and a jacket over his sleep tunic.

“I’m an _idiot,”_ he says again, louder now and with a twinge of hysteria.

He grabs Bianca and rushes out into the main room and—

“Hwah?” someone blurts out. 

With a gasp, Varric stumbles backwards and tries not to drop Bianca. A man— _Hawke,_ sits up from where he’s been laying on the settee. Cushion lines are imprinted on his cheek, and he throws up a small wisp of light a second later. 

“Varric?” he continues, blinking consciousness back in. “What’s going on?”

The hope forming in his chest grows a bit brighter at the sight of Hawke still by his side. “I’m an idiot. We checked the Keep, the city, the smuggling tunnels— but no one’s actually gone into the _rafters_ yet.”

Hawke stares at him, then nods, decisively, calling his staff to fly to his side. “Let’s go.”

Varric leads them to a small alcove by the old Templar barracks, pulling back a heavy tapestry and revealing a servant’s hallway. “Ritts showed me the route, it’s this way.”

Hawke follows quietly and closely behind, wisp small but bright enough to illuminate their way. Really, they should come back in the morning with Aveline, but mutually they reach an unspoken agreement that they should take a look now.

After a couple of turns and a steep staircase, Varric finds himself high in the rafters of the Keep, way higher than a dwarf should be. Behind him, Hawke puts a steadying, warm hand on his waist.

“I’ve got you,” Hawke promises. “Take your time.”

Slowly, they make their way across, looking for any clues or signs of trouble.

After crossing a couple sets of rafters, they find themselves in a tunnel and Varric’s internal map has them somewhere off the back southwest section of the walls. Still, nothing.

It’s only when they’re nearly at the edge of the Keep and escape route to the city does Hawke suck in air, grabbing at Varric tightly. Varric sees it a moment later.

An egg, cracked against the stone floor. And next to it, old blood.

Varric takes in a couple steadying breaths. But unlike the back and forths yesterday, Varric clings to this with greedy, worried hands. This is _proof,_ proof that she was here, that someone had taken her alive.

“We need a tracker, stay here and I’ll– Hawke?” Varric says. Hawke’s crouch on the floor behind him, eyes glassy. Varric shifts, unsure. He’s not– he’s not good with being the leadership one. He’s only seen Hawke get like this twice, once after Carver was bit and they were waiting to see if the Joining was successful, and once right after Leandra died. More than anything, Varric wanted to be the one with a shoulder for Hawke to cry on, but Aveline took the first round of condolences.

Now, he’s not sure what to do. He knows how much Hawke cares for Astyth, how he brightens up as she chatters at him about something utterly boring and incomprehensible. 

Varric crouches in front of Hawke and cradles his head in his hand, mirroring how Hawke calmed him months earlier.

“Hawke,” he says. Hawke barely moves. Varric tests the words in his mouth before he says them, stroking his thumb against his cheekbone. “Mal, look at me.” Hawke slides his eyes over to Varric, pupils going wide but his attention focusing. “This is good news.”

After a moment, Hawke’s breath comes under control. “Yes,” he says, voice scratchy. “Yes it is.”

Hawke stands suddenly and lays his down staff, placing his hands on the stone next to the sole, now sour smelling egg. _All this over an_ _egg_ , Varric thinks, mind catching at how fucking stupid it is. After a second, he digs his fingertips several inches into the stone, like it’s no more solid than clay.

Varric can’t feel the magic himself, but there’s a smell of ozone and the hairs on the back of his hand rise up. “What’re you doing?”

“Feeling through the stone and rubble, little trick Merrill taught me.” Hawke clenches his teeth, hands still planted in the floor. He must sense something, because he sharply looks up and two feet to the right. “Gotcha.”

The wall crunches inwards like a crumpled tissue, revealing a tunnel dotted with veilfire. Hawke digs his hands out of the ground and shares a look with Varric. 

Someone’s been here, either a mage or friends with one. Honestly, Varric had his money on the Carta or an enemy from Starkhaven. He doesn’t care what the Inquisitor thinks or what the Inquisition has planned. If that bald bastard had a hand in this, he’s not going to live long enough to see his new world.

“Shall we?” There’s a hard glint in Hawke’s eye.

Varric cocks Bianca. “Oh, yes we shall.”

It takes them thirty minutes to find the first smuggler. Varric slips into the shadows, Hawke falling invisible as well with some illusion or enchantment. Hawke casts a bodybind and Varric grabs the smuggler by the throat. He’s human, and by the looks of his armor he’s– part of the Freemen of the Dales?

Varric sends a questioning look to Hawke, who shrugs with his eyebrows comically high toward his hairline. Why the fuck are the Freemen picking a fight with him? He helped the Inquisitor with clearing some villas in the Emerald Graves, but that was literally years ago.

The man tries to scream, but Varric tightens against his throat. “We’re looking for someone,” Varric bites out. The Freeman gulps under Varric’s hand. Cautiously, he loosens his hold. 

“The child is alive,” he responds in a thick Orlesian accent, laced with terror. His eyes flick down the tunnel. “If that is who you are looking for, that is.”

“Guess,” Hawke mocks.

Haltingly, the man gives them directions down the tunnel. Varric wants to interrogate him further, but he’s too nervous to answer quickly, and quite frankly they don’t have time to sit around and chat. Hawke knocks the Freeman smuggler out cold with a mind blast, and they pull him behind an abandoned crate. 

The directions seem to be accurate; they run into a couple more sentries, but they’re easily dispatched. They all wear a similar crest, but they're not exactly an elite squad.

Eventually the tunnels lead them to a warehouse. Varric glances through the windows, and sure enough, they’re by the dock near the wharf distract, judging by the smell. The sky is just starting to light up with dawn—they’ve been out all night.

 _You know where we are?_ Varric mouths to Hawke.

Hawke nods, confident, and then inclines his head to the door leading into the main room of the warehouse. They sneak in– Hawke tenses, and Varric has to grab his arm before he storms in, pointing to a pressure plate in the floor. Unlike the hacks in the tunnels, there’s at least two dozen, heavily armed smugglers and mercenaries. 

They’re arguing in Orlesian, and Varric’s a little rusty, but he can pick out _trouble_ and _it could be valuable_ and _it’s safer if she’s dead._ A couple keep glancing nervously at the room on the second story across the way. A quick look to Hawke confirms he caught it as well. 

Hawke gestures for Varric to go up. He hesitates. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Hawke to win, but it’s been forever since they were in a fight together. It makes Varric itch, that it’s no longer as easy as breathing.

But then Hawke winks at Varric, cheery and smug, before turning back to the arguing Freemen with a look so dangerous it gives Varric a chill.

 _Yeah,_ Varric thinks, slipping away to get to the other side of the room, _yeah, we’ve got this._

Varric reaches the bottoms of the stairs when Hawke’s voice rings out, bright and loud.

“Hello boys!” he crows, and then immediately boxes the smugglers in with a wall of ice. A half-second later, a firestorm rains from the ceiling, causing any unfrozen smugglers to stumble to the ground. In the commotion and screaming, Varric jumps the stairs, nimbly stepping over the false steps.

He makes his way to the room, halfway done picking the lock when the door opens and Varric is yanked through. He throws out a handful of small knives, cutting the throat of the man who grabbed him. Varric stumbles, out of breath, and rights himself and—

Astyth.

She’s tied up, placed in the corner of the room, tear tracks down her face. She seems unharmed, but scared.

Next to her, trembling, a man trains a shortbow on Varric’s head. Varric squints, recognizing him.

“Wait– _you?”_ Varric grits out. It’s– it’s his aide. The tall one, with the gangly elbows and knees and the absolute lack of competence. “Sidney?”

The man grimaces. “It’s Roland.” He gestures with his head to the dead man by Varric’s feet. “That’s Sidney.”

Varric looks down and, yeah, okay, now that he mentions it the dead bastard is another one of his aides. Varric is pissed, terrified, but mostly he’s _baffled._ He turns to Roland and makes a general motion with his hand. “When the fuck did you become Orlesian?”

“Not a step closer!” Roland aims the bow at Astyth and Varric freezes, blood boiling.

He keeps his movements slow, gentle, lowering Bianca to the floor. “Come on, we can work this out. I’m guessing this wasn’t part of the plan.” The aide’s jaw clenches. Another piece comes together. “The books, you’ve all been conspiring to skim a little off the top for ages, not a lot, just enough to fly under general mismanagement.” Varric should have known a kid couldn’t have been such a criminal mastermind, no matter how bright and precocious she was. He wonders how many of the thefts were hers, and how many were just his aides being excited to have a scapegoat for a month or two. “I don’t care, really. You don’t have to hang for this”

Roland starts to tremble harder, which Varric really fucking wishes he’d stop doing with an arrow pointed at his kid. The sounds of screaming and fighting behind him aren’t helping. Of all the smugglers Roland could have teamed up with, it had to be the Orlesians that even the _Orlesians_ thought were a bit too much.

“Come on, Roland. Let’s be reasonable. All I want is my kid.” Varric inches slowly forward.

“I don’t think I can do that, Viscount,” the bastard says, full-on shaking now.

“Roland,” Varric says through gritted teeth, words dark and low. “Either you give me back my child or you’re not walking out of here.”

Terrified, the man swings the bow back to Varric. But while Astyth’s hands are tied, her feet are not. She kicks out suddenly, hitting him in the back of the knee and he goes sprawling, arrow shooting wide and missing Varric by a mile.

Varric drops himself, grabbing Bianca and shooting Roland quick twice in his throat and once through the eye. He rushes to his kid, cutting through the rope with another hidden blade and pulling her into a quick fierce hug and a peck on her temple.

“I’m sorry,” she sobs, clinging back just as tightly, “no one else ever used the—”

“It’s okay,” he says, cutting her off. Either they already knew the passage through the rafters existed, or they took advantage of her scouting after she stopped using. At least, until yesterday morning. Roland and his men must have been shocked to accidentally bump into the Viscount’s ward out of the blue. No wonder they had no idea what to do with her. “It’s not your fault, but we have to go, _now.”_

He goes through the room, scanning just to make sure nothing’s left behind.

Varric turns to make sure Astyth is following when she draws back and screams. Something pushes Varric from behind and he stumbles half a step forward.

Varric looks– he looks down and sees a sword sticking _out_ of him—

“Oh shit,” he blurts outs—

The blade disappears suddenly, like it wasn’t ever there. But it _was_ there, it _was_ sticking through Varric’s middle, because ow, yeah fuck, that hurts a lot actually, and he’s definitely bleeding—

The world tips suddenly and Varric’s on the floor now, the clatter of Bianca landing somewhere just out of reach. Varric should grab for it, but instead he holds completely still, like holding still is somehow going to reverse _the hole_ _in his body._

Above him, he can see the blurry shape of a Freeman standing over him. Damnit, he was sloppy, got distracted. The man raises his sword again, but an arrow buries in his chest, followed swiftly by another one, and he falls out of Varric’s field of vision.

There’s a guttural scream behind him, and the smell of fire and ash sharp and crisp against his nose. It’s irritating, but the bright flashes of light are over quick enough, and soon Hawke’s beautiful face hovers above him, anguished. 

He’s a little blurry though. Varric’s crying, but it’s weird, like his eyes won’t stop leaking from the pain but he’s not _sad._ He’s stressed, and scared, because he might be going into shock but it’s not like he’s out of it enough to think this is just a flesh wound. Varric’s just not used to crying for anything other than grief.

“This is so stupid,” Hawke mutters angrily, chugging an entire bottle of lyrium potion. Those are expensive. He kind of wants to point that out to Hawke before he drinks another one _._ “Move your hands.”

Varric obediently moves them out of the way, hissing as he does so. There’s a choked sob, and he finally notices Astyth hovering behind Hawke, face pale.

“No, kid, you shouldn’t be watching this,” he slurs. Varric struggles to keep his attention on her as Hawke cuts open his tunic with the small knife from his boot. Varric almost complains about the hygiene before refocusing on his kid. “Kid, turn around.”

Hawke places his palms firmly over Varric’s wound. Varric blacks out for a second, and when he comes to, Hawke’s murmuring his name.

“‘hear you,” Varric mumbles.

Hawke clicks his jaw audibly, pouring wave after wave of cooling magic into him, but avoids Varric’s eye. “Astyth, I need you to focus right now. Look at me, sweetheart.”

The blurry image of Astyth turns toward Hawke, nodding minutely.

“It’s not safe to stay here, but I can’t move him, not like this, not without another mage,” Hawke continues, speaking low and slowly. “Everyone here is dead, and there should be some guardsmen off the corner of Market and Seward. I need you to go there, now, and get help. Do you know where we are, where that is, and how to get there?”

“Don’t you dare,” Varric says, outrage seeping in slowly but hotly. The words are hard to form on his tongue, lying heavy in his mouth. “Don’t you dare put that on my kid.”

The kid exhales like it’s punched out of her. She nods once more to Hawke. “It’s by the cobbler’s shop, I know it. I can do it. We’re by the wharf.”

Hawke nods. “Yes, Pier 7.”

Varric’s not sure if he blinks or blacks out, but regardless, she’s gone when he opens his eyes.

“How could you let her _go,”_ he moans. It feels like his chest is cleaved in two. He lets his body relax and focuses solely on Hawke pressing more magic into him. Maker, that’s nice. He’s still shaky, and his middle hurts like a bitch, but he’s beginning to feel marginally more lucid.

Hawke’s forehead is beaded with sweat when he finally looks Varric in the eye. 

Varric is suddenly distracted. “Hi,” he says. Hawke’s so beautiful. He’s got a bit of blood smudged on his jaw.

Hawke leans forward suddenly, and for a moment anxiety spikes through Varric, that Hawke poured too much of himself into Varric and will collapse.

Instead, Hawke presses a shaky kiss to Varric’s mouth. 

“I’m—” _still breathing,_ is what Varric means to say, but Hawke cuts him off with another kiss, more insistent.

Distantly, Varric wants to get with the program, but also he’s a bit preoccupied trying not to fully bleed out on this warehouse floor.

“She’s your kid, Varric,” Hawke says, still angry-sounding and low. Varric’s mind sluggishly connects it to his earlier questions. “Trust her.”

“Our kid,” Varric counters. Hawke’s eyes widen. 

“Varric, I—”

“Oh shit,” Varric says, not meaning to cut him off. But his vision wobbles and he definitely blacks out again.

Varric comes back to consciousness by being aggressively jostled. It’s bright out.

“Hey,” he complains, or tries to, but can’t seem to make the words come out.

Someone, a woman, places a cool hand against his forehead, and he can feel the whisper of an unknown mage’s magic against his skin.

“Quiet, messere,” the woman says, and Varric sinks heavily back into sleep.

The third time Varric wakes up, he's in a clinic, one of several he had commissioned across the city to deal with various ailments, from fevers to stab wounds.

Varric searches his mind muzzily for words, eventually grasping them like goldfish in a barrel at a festival. 

“I’m smart,” he mumbles. Not exactly what he wanted to say, but close enough. It was _his_ idea to set up the clinics, and he was the one to push through the initiative to have the free mages join the City Guard. Seeing as he wasn’t currently dead, that must have been the correct decision. He’s kind of killing it at this leadership bag.

There’s a gasp to his left. “He’s awake!” Astyth yells, voice sharp and loud. 

Varric winces, but truthfully it does help wake him up.

“Varric,” a deep voice says and, oh, there’s Hawke again. He’s still got that smudge on his jaw. He holds Varric’s hand in an iron grip. “You’re hurt, but we did the initial healing soon enough. You’ll be okay.”

Varric’s not sure if Hawke’s saying that to comfort him, or himself. Varric clears his throat. “How long have I been out?”

“A couple of hours,” Hawke says. He lets go of Varric’s hand, and if Varric were stronger, he’d grab him back. Instead, Hawke pushes Varric’s sweaty hair out of his face and puts a palm on his wounded middle, another healing spell radiating out. It’s significantly weaker than earlier. “When you’re well enough to move, Aveline’s going to escort us back to my house. We don’t know who in your staff is involved.”

“Quit the fussing, Hawke. I’m fine.” He’s not, obviously—his voice is reedy, even to his own ears. The pain is excruciating, but the twin gut-wrenching looks on Hawke and Astyth’s faces are enough to have Varric plastering a smile on his face. With a twinge, Varric grabs his middle over Hawke’s hand. _Gut-wrenching_ might be a poor choice of words. Astyth blinks at him rapidly, face as closed off as it was when he first met her. Varric reaches out to tap her chin. “Kid, it’s okay.”

She ducks away from his hand. 

“No it’s not,” she grits out. Hawke stops what he’s doing to put a steadying hand on her shoulder. Varric tries not to be hurt that she doesn’t flinch for him. “I could have just asked you to take me instead of sneaking out. It was careless, and it’s all my fault you were hurt.”

“Hey, look at me.” Sullenly, she stares an inch to the left of his shoulder. He waits for her to finally meet his eye, taking the opportunity to gather his breath. “Are you alive?”

“Yes,” she says, voice small.

“Then whatever mistakes you made, they were the right choices.” He sits up and coughs, tasting copper and hoping she doesn’t notice blood on his tongue. “You’re alive, that’s all I care about.”

The healer flutters back into the room, glowering at Varric until he collapses back down onto his back, which hurts. Right, a sword went through it. The healer strips off the binding and slathers a fresh poultice on his wound, the smell bitter and astringent against his nostrils, and forces a potion down his throat. Varric can’t place the herbs, but it tastes like a watery licorice.

The kid’s face is still tight and upset. Varric wants to say something, but the ceiling starts to dip and wave, and his head feels lighter than air.

“Don’t feel guilty,” Hawke says, voice soft. “He’s right. It’s all that matters. If you have kids too, you’ll get it.”

She does flinch away at that. “But I’m _not_ his kid.” Her voice is raw, sad. Hawke looks unhappy, too.

“Wait, stop, both of you– just, I know I’m not– Astyth, I know I’m not your father. Either one of your fathers.” Varric laughs a little without knowing why. This is some _good_ shit. Mentally Varric gives the healer a raise and hopes he’s lucid enough to remember later. “And I don’t care what you call me. You can call me ‘uncle’ or ‘you’ or ‘that rat bastard,’ enough people do already and I don’t even like them. But I like you. You’re my favorite, you’re so cool. I'm always so proud of you. You’re my kid.” Suddenly, Varric’s mirth dries up at the same time he finds his eyes growing wet. “I don’t have to be your dad, but I love you and you’re always going to be my kid.”

“Alright,” she says, squeezing his hand almost unbearably tight, fresh tear tracks down her cheeks. Softly, almost too soft to hear, she whispers, “I love you too, you rat bastard.”

Varric laughs, and laughs, until it hurts his side too much and the healer kicks them out. Hawke flashes a weak smile at Varric as he leaves, but he’s holding Astyth’s hand, so Varric’s not too worried.

The healer also gives Varric another dose of that nice licorice shit, so he happily passes out quickly enough to forget his own name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah the elusive nature of family!!


	10. Chapter 10

Varric takes it easy for a couple days, swaddled in blankets and blissfully high out of his mind. The kid sticks by him, carrying soup in and out of the kitchen like it’s an unexploded mine she needs to guard with her life.

Perk of being an important official, especially in a city with nobles already clamoring and complaining he’s taking too many sick days and not responding to their requests, the healing he receives is top notch. He’s thinking of adding a tax to make healers subsidized for all Kirkwall residents. Gleefully, Varric thinks that should teach the nobles to quit bothering him for a bit. After a week, he’s able to walk around his room with ease, barely feeling pain or getting out of breath. 

Hawke makes himself scarce. Varric tries not to let it bother him. He knows Hawke stuck around to keep Astyth company, calm her down and make her feel safe again while Varric could barely count to ten. As soon as he started getting lucid, Hawke took off to track down the remaining members of the Freeman cell, a rueful look in his eye. 

As Varric suspected, it was a smooth sailing operation for years. Items, some money, just enough to make it worthwhile, but not enough to raise a serious inquest.

After the Exalted Council, Roland, Sidney, and a treasury accountant, among several others, smelled another opportunity. A larger pull, but this time to pin on Fen’Harel and his followers. With the civil war stuttering to an end, the Freemen were happy to be hired, especially as a lingering fuck you to the elves. 

That is, of course, until they literally bumped into the Viscount’s ward and her precious, protein-laden cargo.

He’s lost a little bit of weight the past week, so Varric sneaks into Hawke’s room and digs around his chest to steal a belt. He finds about a dozen of them, near identical. Varric sorts through them, baffles at how one man could need so many belts, when he spots an innocuous leather strap tucked away in a little bundle in the back. It’s— Varric recognizes it instantly. It’s the hair tie Hawke stole months ago, wrapped around a dried flower sprig. Varric delicately frees it from the stem, placing the dried flower carefully on the bedside table and tying his hair back with the cord. After a moment, he moves the flower to Hawke’s pillow.

As he descends down to the ground floor, Varric runs his hand down the bannister and contemplates walking back up and going back to bed. But he chides himself and keeps moving forward. He’s hidden away too long, and needs to sort through his office sooner rather than later. Plus interview his remaining staff to see if any of them crack. Bran was at least cleared of any knowledge or wrongdoing—Varric’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed at his lack of financial ambition.

The kid’s nervous to see him go, but Varric gives her a hug. She’ll be fine. Donnic’s on babysitter-slash-guard duty, and he’s good enough at Wicked Grace to keep her on her toes. Varric glances at the pot on the table, noting with satisfaction that his kid is doing a pretty good job of hustling her opponent.

“I’ll be back later,” Varric says, ruffling Astyth’s hair. She glares at him, so he carefully undoes her hair to put it back in a braid. She used to copy Varric’s hairstyle, but now that her hair’s longer again, she's been trying some of the braids Hawke likes to wear. Varric’s not as good as them, but he’s decent. “And we’ll be able to go back home soon, kid.”

She shrugs, not meeting his eye. “That’s alright. The room here is nicer anyways.”

Varric thinks about pointing out what a headache it was to set up the quarters in the Keep in the first place, but remembers belatedly that it was chiefly designed by his aides. Okay. Fuck that. They’ll stay here until Hawke tires of their company.

Then Varric remembers Hawke kissing him, at least, as much as he can. Sleep deprivation, adrenaline, and blood loss has made Varric’s memory of that night as clear as cottage cheese. 

But the faint press of Hawke’s lips against his own— yeah, Varric’s not going to forget that.

As predicted, the mountain of paperwork left sitting smartly on Varric’s desk makes him groan and almost wish the Orlesian had finished the job.

But he buckles up and goes into triage, separating the urgent from the pile before pulling out the important but less timely missives. One of Aveline’s lieutenants stands in the corner of the office, staring into middle distance. Varric tries to entice her into conversation to pass the time, but his words fall off the woman like water off a duck.

Around midafternoon, the door slams open.

“It’s alright,” Varric says, waving down the lieutenant before she cuts off the head attached to the Champion of Kirkwall. “He’s just an asshole.”

“Hello to you, too, Varric,” Hawke says. 

He looks good, but when does he not. Varric waves the guard out of the office. Hawke doesn’t move from his square of tile. Varric’s close enough that his elbow catches on Hawke’s robes when he moves to shut the door.

Varric clears his throat. “Have fun with Aveline?”

“I think I’m going to kiss you,” Hawke blurts out. But he pauses, eyes darting dark and quick across his face.

Varric nods, dizzy with it. But impatience lances through his bones and he goes on his toes first, leaning into Hawke.

He feels like he’s buzzing, and objectively it’s nothing, just a dry press of lips. And then it’s not. Hawke huffs in frustration and crowds him onto the couch. He settles quickly into Varric’s lap, hunched over and tilting Varric’s face up.

Hawke lets his mouth fall open and– oh, it’s nice. He tastes like cinnamon today. Giddily, Varric wonders if this is what it’ll always be like. Hawke pliant and warm on top of him, but tasting different depending on the day or whim.

He can’t let Hawke show him up, so he throws in a couple of his best tricks until Hawke pants into his mouth and straightens his neck. Varric chases him, mouthing at the juncture of neck and shoulder.

Hawke puffs a bright, startled laugh. “We should be flipped the other way around, shouldn’t we?” He cricks his neck, discomfort at the odd angle evident.

Varric just tugs at Hawke until they’re lying sideways on the couch. There’s a twinge in his middle– nothing dire, just grumbling at the exertion. Hawke smiles at him, eyes crinkling.

Almost shy, Varric sneaks a kiss to the corner of Hawke’s mouth, and he obliges by turning it hot and heavy. Varric tamps down on the hysteria rising within him. Him, the Viscount! The chosen ruler of an entire city, necking on his office couch like a teenager!

But no one could blame him. Hawke kisses with his lips, gentle but clever, and his tongue a tease rather than overpowering. Until it _is_ a bit overwhelming. Not in a sloppy way, but in slow-building intensity until Varric finds it hard to concentrate on anything else.

He feels happy, light. 

Eventually, they slow. Varric half crawls on top of Hawke and leans forward, letting his head rest on Hawke’s collarbone. After a couple seconds, a hand lands in the back of Varric’s hair.

“You always smell like pine needles now,” Hawke murmurs.

Varric blushes and tucks his head into Hawke’s neck. “Scented hair oil. Gift from the Iron Lady.”

“Truly?” Hawke laughs underneath him, and Varric enjoys getting bounced around slightly on his chest. “Madame de Fer is sweet on you, dwarf.”

“No, it’s not like that. Oh Maker, this is so embarrassing.” The fingers in his hair come lower, scratching lightly at the nape of his neck. “I asked her for boutique recommendations, and she gave me a small bottle as a sample.”

“Well, I see clearly now why you died of immediate shame,” Hawke teases.

Varric rolls off of Hawke and gestures to the armoire behind his desk. “Second shelf, behind the linens.”

Intrigued, Hawke places a quick kiss on Varric's temple and saunters over. He grabs the key from Varric’s jacket as he passes, and with a sly smile, “accidentally” drops it on the ground.

“Oh shut up,” Varric complains, hiding his smile behind his hand as Hawke ridiculously bends over to pick it up, waving his hips in the air as he does so. 

But he opens the armoire soon enough, pulling out a handful of expensively wrapped soap. He looks at Varric, puzzlement written clear over his face.

“A present.” Varric drops his hand, deciding to own the mortification. “Apparently all the dukes and duchesses swear by them, but only the really rich ones are wasteful enough to actually _use_ the fucking soap.” Varric shrugs, prickly hot. “I thought you might like them.”

Hawke keeps staring at him. “They smell very nice.”

Varric nods dumbly. “They do.”

“I like you so much,” Hawke breathes.

Varric nods again, throat tight. “Maybe we should have that talk now.”

Hawke gently places the soap back in the armoire. Varric stops himself from snapping at Hawke. He doesn’t need to _hide_ the ridiculously overpriced gift, not now that Varric’s let his affection spill out onto the floor.

“This isn’t casual, for me, Varric.” Hawke settles on the far end of the couch. “I haven’t done casual in years.”

“Okay.” Varric wants to believe him, he does—

Hawke huffs. “I don’t know why that’s so hard to believe.” Varric tries not to startle at Hawke reading his thoughts. “I’ve been practically living the life of an ascetic monk for years. Do you truly think I visit the brothel every time I buy bread?”

Varric blinks at the whiplash in the conversation. “What? Of course not!” But then he thinks again, about cracking jokes whenever Hawke looks tired in the morning, and— “oh.”

 _“Oh,”_ Hawke mocks, mostly to himself. “Really, Varric. So you think I’m a tart, let’s move on.”

“It was a joke! We used to crack it all the time back in the day.” Varric crosses his arms, that prickly feeling turning unpleasant, but Hawke softens at his words. As he should! Varric refuses to feel sorry that Hawke forgot a running joke that _he_ started, the bastard. Varric still feels a bit snippy, though. “But it’s not like this is the first time you’ve slept with friends—”

“Who? _Isabela?”_ Hawke looks at him, flabbergasted. “That was nearly a decade ago, _honestly.”_

Varric flushes because well, yeah. Okay. That’s fair. “Mostly I just figured that if something were going to happen, it would have happened.”

Some of the tension leaves Hawke’s shoulders at that. “Would you believe me if I said that I thought the same?”

“I also knew that you cared for me, I did, truly. But,” Varric laughs a little bitterly, “not nearly as much as I did. Or even the way I did.”

“Varric—”

“Let me just, say my piece because, shit, this is actually really hard to figure out the right words.” Varric tries to center himself. “I thought that if we crossed that line, there was no way I could walk it back, and no way I could hide that from you. I’m sorry for what happened after the Exalted Council, but I thought you were just being kind and trying to distract me. But now, with Astyth– I mean Maker's Breath, Hawke, you’re raising my kid. I can’t fuck that up.”

Hawke rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t know if that’s true.”

“Not true? Are you kidding? You’re wonderful with her. You calm her, bring her out of her shell, you even train her like she’s your kid. You see her more than I do most days.”

“I’m also a layabout, not an important official.” The tips of Hawke’s ears are pink. “More hours to burn, but she adores you. You're her uncle.”

Varric waves his hand at him. “I don’t know how I could have survived without you. You’re a natural with kids.”

 _“Natural?_ Bloody hell are you talking about?” 

“Well you—”

“Do you think I haven’t been stressed out of my mind? I grind my teeth so hard at night I wake with a headache.”

“But—”

Hawke barrels on, eyes glassy. “There is a child, your child, and I’m– I'm nothing. I’m not even the weird uncle, _you’re_ the weird uncle. I’m the weird uncle’s best friend. I’m temporary. Ancillary.” 

“You thought I was going to toss you out? Hawke, _never.”_

“No—,” Hawke says, cutting himself off with a frustrated sigh. “No, I know you won't. But Varric, you’re so _good_ at taking care of people. Making them feel loved, seen. You don’t need me, and it seemed pretty clear that you didn’t want that from me.” Hawke narrows his eyes. “You _did_ reject me, after all.”

“Well, I’m an idiot. I didn’t want to pressure you into something serious. Hawke. I have no idea how to be someone’s family.”

He lets out a wet laugh. “Could have fooled me for the past decade, dwarf.”

Varric feels bowled over, head empty. “You don’t have to stay.”

Hawke winces. “Alright.”

“No, wait, you don’t _have_ to,” Varric babbles, wrongfooted. “But I’d like you to. I really do, I don’t think I can do this without you.”

“Yes, you can,” he says. Hawke looks at Varric intensely, like he can drill his words into Varric’s brain just through sheer force of will.

“Fine, whatever, I’m not fishing for compliments, but I don’t _want_ to.” Varric takes a steadying breath. “I’d really like for you to choose this.”

“Alright.” Hawke grabs his hand, pressing his forefinger into Varric’s pulse for a second before intertwining their fingers. “Yes, I want in. I can’t express how wholly uncasual I feel about the two of you.”

Varric stares at their clasped hands and tries to remember how to be corporeal. “I think I started loving you from the moment we met.”

“Oeugh, too romantic.” Hawke squeezes their hands. “You were very dashing, though, shooting a poor unarmed man in front of me.”

“Thanks.”

Hawke grins and tugs at Varric’s hand until it’s pressed against the side of his jaw. “You’ve got a very handsome face. Pity your brain is so small inside that thick skull of yours.”

_“Thanks.”_

Hawke just barrels on. “For me, you were piss drunk in The Hanged Man and went easy on Merrill at Wicked Grace, but then she won a dare and made you stick beans up your nose.” Hawke starts shaking with poorly concealed laughter, and sneaks a small kiss to the back of Varric’s hand. “I wasn’t sober enough to help you, so we had to traipse all across Darktown to get Anders to magic them out.”

“And that stirred your loins?” Face red-hot, Varric scoots close enough to Hawke that he gets the hint and tugs him back until they’re curved against each other. “I’ll let you stick beans up my nose, but only on your birthday, and only if you call me pretty after.”

Varric can feel Hawke press a smile against his hair.

“It was more that I grinned so hard my face _ached,_ and even when I woke up the next morning, I couldn’t think of anyone I found more delightful. I just wanted to be near you, always. Still do.”

Varric considers making a joke, but he chooses to let the stark, raw emotion in Hawke’s voice lie unsullied. He sits comfortably in the silence, holding Hawke just as tightly back.


	11. Epilogue

Hour three of grant review, and Varric’s ready to stab himself in the arm just to end it. 

Downside of no longer living in the Keep, Varric let himself get used to coming home to the Hawke estate at a reasonable hour. Or getting dragged out of his office by the scruff of his neck. But now that both Hawke and Astyth are out traveling, Bran seems to think that he’s allowed to co-op any and all of Varric’s waking hours.

Kirkwall’s been cleaning up her act, if Varric can smugly boast. It’s amazing how smoothly a city can run when it’s not ruled by mad, bloodthirsty leaders. But walking home in Hightown after dark is still just asking for trouble.

And these grant reviews _are_ sort of his fault. It turns out that when you expand schooling, the kids graduate and actually expect to _do_ something useful with their degrees. He keeps shipping off as many as he can to Orlesian colleges or the Inquisition, but then one of them went and invented advanced irrigation and now he has to wait a month or two for the prototypes to arrive when he _could_ have had them made in-house. Huh, actually, back up. He hasn’t foisted any graduates on Dorian yet, maybe he can get him to foot the bill on their research. It’s not like Tevinter is _blatantly_ an enemy anymore. Should be fine.

He allows the Seneschal to talk at him for another half-hour until Varric throws in the towel for the evening. “Let’s finish these in the morning, Bran.”

“Of course, all I need is your eyes on—”

Varric makes agreeable noises, herding Bran all the way to the hallway before pointedly closing the door in his face mid-sentence. It’s shitty of him, but it’s been a long day and Varric wants it to be over.

He settles at his desk, finally opening the letter he’d wanted to read all day. Varric cuts under the wax seal gently, careful not to damage it. Hawke always uses the seal with his family crest when he travels, but the magpie within Astyth has her collecting various waxes from each city they visit. She has a little collection box she displays in her room—after they learned their lesson by putting it too close to the fireplace. Today’s wax is a deep, stark black, but she’s scattered some loose lavender petals on top.

Varric unfurls the letter, absently picking up his long-cold red tea as he reads. He prefers coffee, truthfully, but Hawke and the kid give him daggered glares if he so much as hints at a symptom of heartburn. Even with them traveling out of the city, Varric has the nagging feeling to look over his shoulder whenever he sneaks a cup.

At the top of the letter, Hawke’s spidery handwriting is easily recognizable.

> _To my darling dearest dwarf,_
> 
> _We got to an inn late last night, too tired to do more than pick the first lodging we saw and immediately fall asleep. Coincidentally, turns out that tucked away just outside of Halamshiral is one of the fanciest inns in the whole region! What a shock! Before I knew it, the innkeeper bullied us into flagrantly expensive all-inclusive “treatments!” Astyth was spirited away to a mud bath that’s apparently “divine enough to rival Andraste,” and I’m writing to you as I await her return. You should know I smell like a sugared plum. It’s unbearable, but I think it might happen again before we leave!_
> 
> _We’re about a day’s ride from where we’re meeting Carver, but about two days too early. It’s a good excuse to take the brat out shopping while we kill time._
> 
> _I think she’s nervous to meet him, but I know she’ll have great fun ganging up with him at my expense, so I’m not too worried! This will also be her first time meeting Dog. She’s definitely excited about that, but I think she’ll change her tune when she realizes the mabari is bigger than she is._

Varric snorts, taking another sip of his tea. Varric hadn’t originally wanted to let her go. She’d gone on short trips with Hawke before, but none for this long, nor this emotionally fraught. Despite her curiosity at yet another prospective uncle, her comfort with the Wardens still balances on a thin blade, day by day.

The thought of her out there, unhappy and anxious without him nearby, makes his heart clench. But the knowledge that Hawke is with her calms his nerves. Hawke’s side of the family is hers too, and it’s something they both wanted to reconcile before arriving back in Kirkwall and getting distracted by this or that.

> _She’s back now and being impatient to write to you, so I’ll finish off for now. By the time you read this, we’ll already be on our way back!!!!_
> 
> _Your handsome heartfelt human, and yours in general,_
> 
> _M.G.H._

Underneath his initials, the letter continues in cramped yet impeccable, neat penmanship.

> _You’ve lent him too big of a purse. We only checked into the inn so late because he wouldn’t quit walking around until he found someplace fancy enough for his refined tastes._ _I’m_ _not the brat. I don’t know how you put up with someone so spoiled._

There’s a small stick figure of Hawke crying next to the word “spoiled,” presumably drawn by the man himself.

> _The spa’s not too bad, though. Mal said normally children aren’t allowed and I think that’s stupid. If the weather stays nice, he said we can stop here for another night and Uncle Carver can try it too. And I’ve met mabari before I know they’re big and I don’t care. I hope you’re being nice to my bird and we’ll be home soon._
> 
> _love, a.t._

Varric runs his finger lightly over her sign off, even though the ink’s long dry. A small smile plays on his lips at her short attention span, even mid-paragraph. Her penmanship really is incredible. He’s thinking of hiring her a painting tutor, she should be a natural with her steady hand, but he’s not sure she won’t be tempted into a life of forgery. 

Jury’s still out if she would like to pick up the Viscount mantle when she’s of age. Selfishly, Varric hopes she follows his footsteps that lead into a life in the arts, not politics or fighting. She’d be a ruthless merchant, but the Guild’s backstabbing is constricting and he’d prefer her to have the freedom in life neither he nor Hawke got to keep. But, a life as a Viscount is markedly more free than a life behind bars, so beggars can’t be choosers.

She’s just starting to turn into a greasy monster of a teenager. Weirdly, he’s looking forward to it. He missed being there for her terrible twos, but can’t wait to stand witness to the unbearable awkwardness that is adolescence. Varric’s taken to imagining them all old, Hawke by his side, retelling embarrassing anecdotes while an adult Astyth rolls her eyes fondly. He would never write about his kid in a book, not a published one, but he’s also been secretly working on some children’s books with his editor. It’s been forever since he wrote something, and he’d like to be able to share his new book with her without having to wait for her to be older.

Carefully, he folds the letter back up, placing it in his drawer with the neat stack of letters they’ve sent him before. He feeds his daughter’s damn chicken before he forgets, grabbing the fresh egg and letting it peck him without souring his good mood.

His family is coming home soon, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> _**Potential squicks/triggers:** Characters recreationally drink alcohol, including when they’re stressed or overwhelmed. Someone gets stabbed from their POV (he gets better), but also gets really high while recuperating (for medical reasons). It’s not super graphic/gore heavy, although there is some blood. No sex in this fic. Anders wasn’t in the party to temporarily restore Bartrand’s lucidity, so Varric ended up killing his brother. Hawke and Isabela had a friends-with-benefits thing early on in their friendship, and they amicably stayed just friends after. The kid wasn’t neglected, but her relationship with her uncle/adoptive parents before Varric was complicated. The adoptive parents care about her wellbeing, but they also a) force her to call them “dad” and “mom” when she’s not ready to, and b) arrange to send her off when she’s too difficult and it’s better for them financially. There’s no character bashing of companion characters, but this fic is not “Anders-was-right” compliant and there’s canon typical irritation/fear of Solas, if that gets your goat. (To be specific, neither Hawke nor Varric is happy about the riots in Kirkwall, Hawke refers to Anders once as a “terrorist,” and Varric just thinks Solas is cringe before he gets scared shitless Solas might be jump-starting another apocalypse.) _
> 
> * * *
> 
> **aaaaand that's a wrap!! some things I jotted down to myself while writing:**
> 
>   * this is the SINGLE longest thing i’ve ever written holy shit… NaNoWriMo WHOM?
>   * title comes from “For You” by Laura Marling, which is an unbearably tender song and one I associate as being a type of lullaby from an overwhelmed parent to their child. the lyrics in the referenced section are “No childish expectation / Love is not the answer / But the line that marks the start” which makes my heart hurt. plug in some headphones and listen in a dark room etc etc it’s very good
>   * alt title of this was “i resent you for being tall” which doesnt fit the story AT ALL lyrics-wise except that varric is short and i think i'm funny. also a bit of foreshadowing for the eventual villain reveal >:) much love miss fiona apple xoxo
>   * speaking of apples, the bit about biting into apples is not a firefly reference :( it’s a me reference :( my teeth also hurt when I bite into apples unless I cut them up beforehand :( get off my jock, joss
>   * the timeline is… whatever. I lost count tracking months LOL but it should be pre- and post-trespasser compliant
>   * i’d like to think that epilogue & after, people are like “oh are those your dads?” and the kid is like, “eeeesh yes but don’t tell them I said that. Honest emotions are cringe” because she’s still raised by them and also therapy hasn’t been officially invented in thedas yet. Poor Cole is the sole therapist in the entire continent 
>   * i'm pretty sure I invented the whole “dwarfs do apprenticeships'' thing but oh well. It’s not like bioware invested a lot of time beefing up their dwarf lore lmao. This story is a bit derogatory toward dwarfs at points, but that's also bc it’s from varric’s POV and he’s a little prejudiced
>   * also apparently the viscount title is lifelong & hereditary, unless a) there’s no named heir, or b) the local houses assassinate you to elect a new viscount LOL
>   * couldn’t figure out how to work this in, but hawke absolutely made out with varric just to double check they were compatible before going through the emotional turmoil of making a love declaration LOL practical king
>   * also i watched _the untamed_ too recently and now i find an abundance of uncles to be a kinda funny plot point lol
>   * did i google search “medevial toothpaste” because a) the lack of toothbrushes was bothering me and b) i never remember how to spell medieval? Did i learn that people used linen, in combination with sage+salt or charcoal pastes and also mint/cinnamon/fennel as olde timey altoids? Yes to all.
>   * this fic can best be summed up by my friend's comment: "[Author] Works Through Her Dad Thing: A Novel"
> 

> 
> **I hope you enjoyed the story :)**


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